The More Things Change
by dS-Tiff
Summary: Mort joins Fraser and RayK as they try to help two people living in a dangerous neighbourhood.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is set towards the end of Season 3/4. I hope you all enjoy it._

CHAPTER 1

"Fraser, it's just one doughnut. It's not gonna do him any harm," Ray threw his hands in the air in despair as he walked out of the Twenty Seventh into the bright morning sunshine. He'd been arguing with Fraser since they left the squad room. "Besides, he did good this mornin'. We'd never have caught Sanders without him so he deserves a reward."

"Ray, you know perfectly well that Diefenbaker isn't as active as he used to be," replied Fraser, frowning. "Deep fried snacks are inappropriate."

Dief yapped and ran ahead of them across the car park.

"Don't you take that tone with me," Fraser scolded the wolf. "It's too late now anyway because you've already eaten it. I'm simply trying to look after you."

Dief stopped and turned, yawning as he did so.

"See?" continued Fraser. "Do you see what I mean? It's only eleven in the morning and already you're tired. Your diet is appalling and your exercise regime beggars belief."

Ray watched this exchange with amusement as he followed them towards his car. All he'd done was throw Diefenbaker a stale doughnut that had been on his desk since yesterday and now the poor animal was on the receiving end of one of Fraser's full-on lectures. He felt kinda sorry for the furball.

Dief barked twice and sat down.

"Oh well if that's your attitude then you can stay here," snapped Fraser. "Ray doesn't need your assistance in obtaining Mrs Dior's statement anyway." He walked briskly towards the gate, leaving a stubborn wolf to mutter a sarcastic lupine retort under his breath.

"Er, Fraser," said Ray, glancing at Dief. "Fraser…er…"

"Don't be concerned, Ray," replied Fraser without slowing his pace, "he's sulking."

"No, Fraser, it's just…er, ya forgot somethin'," called Ray, watching in mild amusement as his partner strode out of the gate.

Fraser stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. It wasn't like him to forget anything, perhaps he was unwell, he thought to himself, suddenly concerned. Maybe he had been a little harsh on Diefenbaker? He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Ray for an explanation.

"The car, Fraser!" exclaimed Ray.

Fraser closed his eyes and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

Ray chuckled. "Are ya feelin' OK there, buddy?" he asked as Fraser headed back to the car, carefully avoiding eye contact with a rather smug looking Diefenbaker.

"I don't know," replied Fraser, honestly. "Perhaps I should report for a medical?"

Ray opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak they were both distracted by a young man, aged no more than eighteen, who rode a bicycle at high speed through the gate. He skidded his bike to a halt and leapt off.

Immediately, Ray drew his gun. "Hey, you're trespassin' on Police property!" he yelled.

The young man threw his hands in the air, his eyes wide with fear.

"Lower your weapon, Ray," urged Fraser, "he's no threat," and he walked slowly across the car park towards their visitor. "Can we help you, son?" he asked.

"You're…you're cops, right?" asked the young man, gingerly lowering his hands and keeping one eye on Ray who had re-holstered his gun and joined his partner.

Fraser nodded in confirmation. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Jermaine," came the reply. "You should come quick, man. I…I think I just saw a kid getting shot."

Fraser nodded and made a move to follow him, but Ray grabbed his sleeve. "Woah there, buddy," he said. "Are ya really gonna fall for that?"

"Are you suggesting that this young gentleman is not telling the truth?" Fraser asked, his brow furrowing into a frown. _Maybe I am out of sorts today? I really should see a doctor, he thought._

"C'mon! Please!" urged Jermaine. "It's just around the block. There were two guys in an alley, one had a gun and I think the other kid had a knife."

Fraser glanced quickly back at Ray and then ran over to Jermaine. Every feeling he had was telling him that this young man was telling the truth and if there was a chance to save a life, or maybe two, then he couldn't give in to any doubts. He picked up the bicycle from where it had clattered to the ground. "Show me," he insisted.

Jermaine nodded and gratefully jumped back onto his bike, setting off at speed with Fraser sprinting behind him.

Ray hesitated for a split second, before letting out a loud growl of frustration. "Jeez, Fraser!" he yelled, although by now his buddy was well out of earshot, even for that Super Mountie hearing of his. Ray shook his head and started to run after them. "If this is some kinda trap…" He decided not to dwell on that thought.

Diefenbaker had been watching with interest. He hadn't heard every word, but he'd picked up enough. As much as the prospect of lazing here in the sun for a few hours was appealing, he knew that his human associates were probably running into trouble…again…and no doubt they'd be calling on him to get them out of it, as usual. Dief sprang to his feet and raced after them.

XxxX

Dief caught up with Fraser moments before Ray did. Jermaine was standing next to his bike, holding it upright by clutching the crossbar, while looking around nervously.

"Was this the place?" asked Ray, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Fraser made a mental note to invite his friend along on his next early morning training run.

Jermaine nodded. "They were in this alley," he replied, "I guess we're too late."

Fraser glanced at Ray and then turned to Jermaine. "Stay here, son," he said and cautiously took a few steps down the alley.

Ray looked ahead, but saw nothing except an overflowing yellow dumpster. He sprung forward a few steps to catch up with his buddy. "You see anythin'?" he asked.

"Not at this juncture," replied the Mountie in a low voice. He was well aware that Ray's suggestion that this could be a trap was all too real.

Ray nodded silently and drew his gun. Without either of them needing to say another word they took up a back to back position and walked further into the alley, looking all around as they did so. Ray didn't like the look of the two small first floor windows that overlooked the dark space. He was glad that Fraser had his back, as always, but right now he wished his buddy had his back covered with a gun in his hand.

Diefenbaker was keeping close to Fraser's heels; even the wolf could sense the possibility of danger. They headed for the dumpster. The smell of rotting vegetable peelings and old takeaway cartons was interfering with his senses, but as they got closer he was suddenly aware of a smell he recognised. He barked quietly to alert Fraser and picked up his pace.

"Oh dear," replied Fraser, following his wolf.

"What?" half whispered Ray, but he didn't need to wait for an answer as by now they were close enough to see the body of a young man and the pool of blood that had formed at his side. Ray muttered an expletive under his breath.

A crude attempt had been made to hide the body under the dumpster, but it was clear that whoever had done the hiding had been in a hurry as an arm and leg were clearly visible without needing to move the heavy plastic unit.

Fraser crouched beside the body and checked for a pulse, even though he knew he wouldn't find one. The body was still warm, but there were no signs of life, just as he expected. Fraser glanced up at Ray and shook his head.

"I'll call it in," said Ray and took his phone from his pocket.

"What did you find?" asked Jermaine who had started walking to join them.

Fraser got to his feet and held his hand out in a 'stop' gesture. "You don't need to see this," he said solemnly. "I'm afraid we have discovered the victim of an apparent homicide."

"I told you!" exclaimed Jermaine.

"Hey, Fraser, look at this," called Ray. He'd walked back towards the main road in an attempt to find a better signal for his phone and he'd spotted something on the ground. "Is this more blood?"

Fraser walked over to him and got down on one knee. He dipped a finger into the substance Ray was pointing to. "Hmmm..." he said, rubbing his finger and thumb together.

"Don't ya dare put that in your mouth," warned Ray, forcing down the nausea that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"No need," replied Fraser. "Tactile analysis was all that was required in this instance. You were perfectly correct; this is blood, although it's not fresh. I estimate this has been here for between two and four hours."

XxXxXxX

"OK kid, from the beginning again," Ray sighed and stood up from the chair. Jermaine's eyes followed him as he paced up and down. "You were just ridin' past the alley…" Ray prompted.

"Yeah," replied Jermaine, frustration starting to show in his voice. "I already told you guys all this, why are ya treatin' me like a criminal? I was just tryin' to help, man!"

"No one's callin' ya a criminal," replied Ray, "but we've got a dead guy in the morgue so we need to know how he got there and you're our only lead."

In the next room, Fraser was watching through the two way mirror. The door opened and Jack Huey walked in. "Francesca's looking for you," he said and Fraser nodded an acknowledgement. Huey turned to leave, but his attention was drawn to the events in the interview room. He stopped and listened for a minute. Then he sighed and shook his head.

"Is something wrong, Detective?" Fraser asked.

"You've got nothing on this kid have you," replied Huey, "but he's a black kid, so Ray figures he's gotta be involved somehow, right?"

"What?" Fraser was momentarily confused, until he realised what Huey was insinuating. "No!" he exclaimed, "no, not at all. Ray doesn't hold any xenophobic prejudices, surely you know that?" He couldn't quite believe that Huey would think Ray was in any way racist.

Huey waved his hand dismissively and walked out, leaving a slightly stunned Fraser watching the door close behind him. No sooner as it had shut than it was open again and Huey was back in the room. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean that."

Fraser nodded and Huey turned to leave again. "Detective Huey," Fraser called after him and Huey turned his head. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

Huey grinned. "Sure," he lied, angry at himself for letting Fraser see into his head that way. "And Fraser," he added, "how many times have I told you, call me Jack, or just Huey."

"Right you are," replied Fraser. "Please inform Francesca that I'll be with her in a moment."

Huey nodded and left. Fraser made a mental note to keep an eye on him as he was concerned that something was troubling the Detective. He'd known Jack Huey since he'd arrived in Chicago and whilst they hadn't always seen eye to eye, particularly in the early days, Fraser had grown to consider him a friend and a trusted colleague. Fraser turned his attentions back to Ray and Jermaine.

"I wish I'd just kept on goin'," sighed Jermaine, "I gotta go pick up my Grandpop's meds. People kill each other every day in this city so why the hell did I get involved?"

Ray wasn't sure who he was directing that question to. Either way he figured that the kid was probably telling the truth though and he really was just an innocent passer by. "OK, OK, wait here and I'll get someone to take your official statement," he said, "then you'll be free to go."

Ray left the interview room and found Fraser waiting outside.

"Hey buddy," he said, "I guess ya heard all of that."

"Most of it," replied Fraser. "Are you satisfied, now, of Jermaine's veracity?"

"If that means do I still think he's lyin' then no, I think he's clean," replied Ray. "He's just gotta sign on the dotted line and then he can, er, go home."

Ray went to organise the paperwork and Fraser went to find Francesca Vecchio.

"Hi Frase,"Francesca smiled as he approached her desk, "you're looking…" She sighed and took a moment to compose herself, suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of the handsome Mountie, "…you're looking good today." She breathed slowly, feeling her body temperature rising.

"Um, thank you kindly, Francesca," replied Fraser, blushing hard. "Um, er…" he cleared his throat and ran his forefinger around the starched collar of his red tunic, "er, Detective Huey said you wanted me…er…" Fraser felt his throat tighten at the Freudian slip. "He said you wanted to see me."

"Oh, oh yes," Francesca forced herself to break eye contact with him and tried to return to her professional persona. "Here," she said, passing him a piece of paper, "I got an ID on your John Doe."

"Ah, excellent work," said Fraser and Francesca beamed at him. Fraser scanned down the information he'd been presented with. "Desmond Jackson…my goodness, he has rather a chequered past," he observed.

"Yep, they knew him pretty well over at the Twenty Third," agreed Francesca, "that holding cell must've felt like his second home. I called one of my brother's old buddies; he works with youth gangs over at the Two Three. He's going to call back and speak to Ray later 'coz he's got quite a lot of info on our guy. It seems Jackson was good friends with a few real lowlifes on that side of town."

"Thank you again, Francesca," nodded Fraser.

"Any time," she smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Thanks for drivin' me home," said Jermaine from the passenger seat of Ray's GTO.

"It's no trouble," replied Fraser, looking in both directions several times before pulling out of a junction. "You do understand why the Police had to retain your bicycle though. You should have it returned to you in the next couple of days once they've finished examining it for forensic evidence."

"Yeah, it's OK, I get it," replied Jermaine. He rustled the paper bag he was holding. "My Grandpop's gonna be pissed," he sighed, "if he didn't have the TV up so goddam loud all the time he might have heard the phone when I tried to call him from the cop shop."

"Were you able to collect all of his medication?" asked Fraser, glancing quickly at the paper bag before returning his eyes to the road. He was always so nervous driving Ray's pride and joy, but Lieutenant Welsh had insisted his partner stay at the station and work on his report.

"Yeah," nodded Jermaine, "they know me pretty well at the drugstore by now, they keep everything back for me."

"I don't mean to pry, but does your grandfather have a lot medical conditions?" Fraser enquired, pulling up to a stop sign. He looked right, then left, then right again.

"A few," replied Jermaine, "but he's old, that's what happens I guess. My Grammy always took care of his health and his meds, but since she died and it's just the two of us at home….ah, I don't know, maybe I should be paying more attention? He's changed, Constable, he can't do stuff anymore, but he won't let me do things for him either." Jermaine returned to rustling the paper bag on his lap.

"It is widely believed that some Inuit tribes practiced senilicide, particularly in times of famine," began Fraser, "the sick and elderly were considered a drain on resources." He glanced at Jermaine and it was obvious from the young man's expression that he had no idea what Fraser was talking about. He was about to explain further, but then he reconsidered. This particular history lesson was, perhaps, inappropriate at this juncture he realised. Instead he asked, "Have you always lived with your grandparents?"

Jermaine nodded. "If, er, if you're wonderin' what happened to my folks, well…" he trailed off. He wasn't sure why he suddenly had the urge to tell this Mountie his life story, but there was just something about him, an overwhelming sense of trust.

"Your personal life is your business," Fraser pointed out, although he was, naturally, curious. He looked right and left for the final time before carefully pulling out into the traffic.

"Yeah, well, I have no idea who my Dad is," Jermaine began, "I don't think my Mom ever knew who he was," he added, rolling his eyes. "She was a hooker, that's not somethin' I tell everyone."

"I imagine it isn't," noted Fraser. "You refer to her in the past tense, am I right in assuming…" he trailed off.

"Yeah," Jermaine nodded, "she died when I was three, I don't even remember her that much."

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Fraser.

"Thanks," Jermaine managed half a smile. "My Grandparents are good people, Constable, they raised her right, but she got in with the gangs, it broke their hearts. My Grammy always said they got a second chance with me."

"They should be proud of their achievements," smiled Fraser, "you appear to be a sensible and well balanced young man."

Jermaine looked away, embarrassed.

"I was also raised by my grandparents," Fraser added, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable, "my mother passed when I was a little older than you were, I was six."

"Oh, I'm sorry," replied Jermaine. Maybe that's what he'd sensed earlier…a connection; they'd both lost their mothers. _No_, he thought suddenly, _what has this crazy Canadian got in common with me? He's just another cop._

Fraser pulled up outside Jermaine's apartment building and they got out of the GTO.

"You don't gotta come up with me, it's OK," said Jermaine as they climbed the stairs to his apartment.

"I'd like the opportunity to explain to your grandfather exactly why you've been delayed," replied Fraser, "I do not wish you to be in any trouble. Your actions today are to be commended."

"Thanks," mumbled Jermaine as he turned his key in the lock and pushed open the door. He didn't feel like he'd done anything that great. A guy died, he thought to himself, there's nothing commendable about that. "Gramps!" he called out as he and Fraser stepped into the apartment. "Sorry I'm late. I've got someone here wants to talk to you."

There was no reply. Jermaine wasn't too concerned, his elderly grandfather often had the TV turned up too loud, usually because he'd forgotten to switch on his hearing aid.

"Gramps," he called louder as he walked into the living room, "where are…" but before he could say anything else he and Fraser were confronted with the sight of the elderly man collapsed on the floor. "Oh my god!" exclaimed Jermaine.

Fraser quickly knelt by the man's side and felt for a pulse.

"Is he OK?" asked Jermaine, urgently.

Fraser sat back on his haunches. "He appears to be…sleeping," he replied, slightly confused. "What's his name?"

"Eugene," replied Jermaine.

Fraser gently shook the sleeping man's arm and called his name and then again a little louder. The man stirred and opened his eyes.

"Gramps!" exclaimed Jermaine with relief, "what the hell are you doin' down there?"

Eugene grunted a response and tried to lift his head.

"Please try to stay still," urged Fraser. "Are you hurt? Did you fall?"

"Who are you?" grumbled Eugene, ignoring Fraser's advice and trying again to lift himself up. He leaned heavily on his elbow. "Why are you here?"

"My name is Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," explained the Mountie as he and Jermaine helped the old man to a sitting position. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of…"

"I'm calling 911," said Jermaine, cutting him off in full flow.

"Don't be stupid, boy," snapped Eugene, "I'm fine, I just took a tumble and I couldn't get up. I guess I fell asleep. Where the hell were you anyway?"

"Sir, Jermaine has been at the Police station," explained Fraser, "he is a witness in a homicide investigation."

Fraser and Jermaine slowly lifted the old man to his feet and walked him slowly back to the sofa.

"Where's your walking stick, Gramps?" asked Jermaine, looking to Fraser with concern.

"I don't know," replied Eugene.

"Well that's why you fell over," sighed Jermaine. "You need that stick, when are you gonna learn?"

"Don't you dare speak to me like that," retorted Eugene.

Jermaine threw his arms in the air in frustration. "I thought you were dead, Gramps!" he yelled. He picked up the paper bag that he'd dropped on the floor and threw it on the sofa. "I got your meds," he muttered and stormed off to his bedroom.

Fraser was momentarily speechless.

"He thinks he knows everything, but he's just a kid," Eugene said, by way of explanation. "Now, I don't know why you're in my home young man, so get out."

"I'm sorry," replied Fraser, "but it would be remiss of me to leave while I'm still concerned about your health and wellbeing. I'd like to get you a blanket; you got a little cold while you were on the floor."

"I told you, I'm fine," snapped Eugene. "Jermaine can take care of me." 

Fraser hesitated briefly, but eventually he turned and headed for the door. "Please inform Jermaine that the Chicago PD will be in touch with him shortly," he said. Then he noticed a battered walking stick leaning against the wall. He picked it up and passed it back to Eugene with a smile. "I believe you were looking for this."

xXxXx

"That's a lot of responsibility for a young man," Mort had already begun the autopsy of Desmond Jackson when Fraser arrived. "Please pass me those forceps, Fraser," he added.

"He's only just turned eighteen. He was talking about his desire to attend college," said Fraser, passing Mort the instrument, "but he feels a responsibility to care for his grandfather. Is this the only tattoo on the body?" Fraser turned the stiff left arm over slightly to study the design.

"I found no others," replied Mort, "but going back to your young friend, he is in somewhat of a difficult predicament. I imagine that he's…" but he trailed off while he concentrated on his work. "Ah," he said suddenly, "there it is."

"The bullet?" queried Fraser, grabbing a metal dish from the side.

Mort nodded silently and pursed his lips slightly as he carefully teased apart the dead tissue. "It's embedded right here."

Fraser leaned in closer as Mort gripped the tiny piece of metal with the forceps and pulled it out. It made a clanging noise as he dropped it into the dish Fraser was holding for him. Fraser rolled it around the dish and let out a small sigh.

Mort knew exactly what he was thinking. "They never learn, do they," he said. He'd pulled far too many identical bullets from the bodies of other young people.

"I'll get this over to Ballistics," said Fraser, "it may match something already on file."

"Well I have a cause of death for the report, not that it was really in much doubt," said Mort, solemnly.

Fraser put the metal dish down on the table and returned his attention to the body. "So the bullet's trajectory would indicate a shot at close range, entering at this angle," Fraser indicated with his finger.

"That's correct," agreed Mort, "it pierced the heart here and here, damaging the left ventricle and puncturing the aorta."

"So, he would have died almost instantly?" asked Fraser. Mort nodded. Fraser picked up the forceps that Mort had been using moments earlier. "May I?" he asked.

"Be my guest," smiled Mort. He admired Fraser's enthusiasm. Most of the Detectives at the Two Seven avoided visiting the mortuary at all costs, preferring to wait for the written autopsy reports, but Fraser liked to be more hands on. He had a hunger for learning new things and Mort was always happy to feed that hunger. Besides which he was pleased to have some company for a change. He'd got so used to working alone he'd forgotten how good it felt to share experiences with other people. Who'd have thought he'd have so much in common with a Mountie almost half his age? "What have you found?" Mort asked.

"Nothing pertinent," replied Fraser, "I was curious about this discolouration in his right lung. I assume it was caused by heavy use of tobacco?"

"You're correct," nodded Mort, "that's typical of someone who had been smoking for several years. I imagine he became addicted to nicotine as a young child."

Fraser nodded sadly. "Jermaine Brown has done well to avoid the usual temptations of youth."

"He has, which makes it all the more unfortunate that his youth is being taken away from him now in another way," noted Mort.

"It's a pity his grandfather doesn't share your views," said Fraser. "Do you have any family, Mort?" he asked.

Mort fought down the sense of fear that always threatened to overwhelm him at the mention of his family. He had no one now; he'd even lost touch with the family of the young American GI who had liberated him from the camp after the war and brought him to the country that would become his home. "No," he replied, flatly, glancing down at his sleeves to make sure they were fully covering his own tattoo as always.

Fraser was instantly aware that Mort had become distressed. He knew the man too well now not to notice, but he also knew that there was much about Mort that he chose to keep to himself. "Is…is everything alright?" he asked, gingerly. The last thing Fraser wanted to do was upset him.

Mort contemplated telling Fraser about his early childhood and why he had no family. For a moment he considered the words he could use to describe how he'd felt as he'd watched his mother being dragged away, screaming his name before she disappeared out of sight for the last time, but there were no words. Mort glanced down at the open torso of the young murder victim and decided that now really wasn't the time for this conversation…perhaps another day. "Yes, I'm fine," he smiled and started humming the opening bars to Act II of Verdi's Falstaff. "I should finish up here," he added.

"Of course," nodded Fraser, pulling off his latex gloves and placing them carefully in the sterile waste receptacle. "Thank you for indulging me," he added as he took his tunic from the coat hook and draped it over his arm. "It has been most enlightening."

"Thank you for the conversation and the company," replied Mort with a broad smile.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"Vecchio," Lieutenant Welsh stood in the doorway of his office and called gruffly to Ray. "Detective Lynch from the Twenty Third is on the phone in my office, wants to talk to you about your dead guy."

It took Ray a few moments to register that the Lieutenant was talking to him. It was early in the morning and he hadn't had enough coffee yet.

"Vecchio!" Welsh raised his voice.

"Er, oh, yeah, I'm comin'," Ray finally acknowledged and was half way to his boss's office when Fraser walked in to the bullpen. "Fraser," he waved his hand to his buddy, "you might wanna hear this."

Fraser followed him, saying a cheery 'good morning' to everyone whose desk he passed on the way. He couldn't help noticing that Jack Huey's desk was empty.

"So that tattoo is a gang marking," Ray said into the phone as Fraser finally walked into the office. "I thought I'd seen it before. OK, yeah, er, fax over what ya have." Ray fell silent as his former colleague explained how the leaders of the particular gang that Jackson had been a member of, known as the C-Snakes, had been in the middle of a power struggle in recent months with the gang effectively breaking into two factions. "So our shooter could be one of his gang buddies?" pondered Ray. Detective Lynch agreed and promised to pass on whatever intelligence they could gather.

"Have we walked into the middle of a gang war, gentlemen?" asked Welsh with concern.

"Lynch has a guy on the inside," explained Ray, "as soon as they can make contact we should get some intel."

"Is Jermaine Brown in any danger, Sir?" asked Fraser. "He is a witness in this homicide investigation; Desmond Jackson's associates may be concerned that he can identify them."

"But the kid couldn't even tell us what the two guys were wearin'," replied Ray, "he didn't see nothin'."

"We know that Ray, but they don't," Fraser pointed out, wincing at Ray's use of a double negative.

"Good point, Constable," nodded Welsh, "I'll put people in the neighbourhood and if there's any hint of trouble we'll pull him and get him to a safe house."

"He lives with his elderly grandfather," explained Fraser.

"Don't worry, Constable," Welsh assured him, "we'll have their backs."

"Thank you, Sir," Fraser nodded.

Just then Francesca appeared in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt, but the Desk Sergeant called up; Jermaine Brown is downstairs to collect his bicycle," she explained. "Ray, you've gotta sign the release form."

"Greatness," sighed Ray. He hated paperwork. "C'mon buddy, we'd better warn the kid about this gang connection. Then we'll get out on the streets; see if we can find someone who knows, er, somethin'...anythin'."

Diefenbaker reluctantly followed them down the stairs. He wasn't really talking to Fraser at the moment after he'd been served some kind of fruit for breakfast. Fruit was not going to provide enough fuel for an artic wolf to last until lunchtime, he'd have to get something else from somewhere and soon. If it was Sergeant Diaz on the front desk this morning he knew he'd be OK. She was a sucker for his hungry eyes. Perhaps he should try some whimpering too, or maybe that would be too much…he didn't want to overdo it. He was getting better at turning on that look that always worked on humans, he could even fool Fraser, but he was saving that for later. Make the Mountie sweat a little, he thought, pile on the guilt for the rest of the day and he should be rewarded with a hearty steak tonight. His mouth watered at the thought of steak, but Sergeant Diaz's cookies would have to do for now.

"Good morning," smiled Fraser as Jermaine stood up to greet them.

"They called and said I could come get my bike," explained the young man.

"I just gotta get ya to sign this form," explained Ray, handing him the clipboard that Sergeant Diaz had passed him.

"There has been a development in the investigation," explained Fraser, "we need to discuss it with you before you leave."

"OK," replied Jermaine, he didn't like the sound of that. "But I can't be long. My Grandpop was being really grouchy before I left; I think he hurt himself yesterday when he fell, but of course he won't tell me."

"Do you have assistance with his care from medical professionals?" asked Fraser.

Jermaine laughed. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Gramps won't admit we need help…." then his face fell.

Fraser glanced at Ray while he countersigned the release forms for the bike. "If you'd like to come this way we need to update you with the new information, it won't take more than a few minutes," he said and they headed for the lunch room.

They sat at a table in the corner and Diefenbaker settled on the floor, satisfied now that his belly was full of cookies. Luckily Fraser had been distracted for long enough for him to be able to snaffle two chocolate ones and three cherry.

Ray got himself a coffee from the machine. He inhaled deeply as the smell of freshly brewed beans wafted around. _Getting this machine was one of the best ideas Frannie has ever had_, he thought. He looked back towards Fraser and Jermaine who were already deep in conversation. "Coffee?" he asked.

Jermaine shook his head. "Don't drink coffee, but thanks anyway," he replied.

"Ah, perhaps I could interest you in some bark tea instead?" asked Fraser, producing two teabags from his hat.

Jermaine nodded. He had no idea what bark tea tasted like, but it sounded cool so why not. Ray returned to the table with his coffee and Fraser went over to the side to make the tea.

"I guess Fraser told ya about the gang connection," said Ray, blowing over the top of his steaming mug.

"Yeah, he said not to worry, but…" Jermaine trailed off, nervously.

"We've got no reason to think they even know who ya are," said Ray reassuringly, "but we're puttin' people on the case, you'll be safe, ya just gotta keep your eyes open, OK?"

"OK," replied Jermaine, unconvinced. He really wished he'd ignored what had been going on in that alley and had just gone straight to the drugstore then none of this would be happening. He'd had dealings with gangs before, but he'd come to his senses before getting in too deep. What he'd seen and heard was enough to make him realise that it was not the life he wanted to lead.

"Your grandfather needs to be made aware of the situation," said Fraser as he returned with two mugs of tea. "If you feel it necessary I can telephone him, or visit again."

Jermaine laughed. "I don't think he wants to speak to you again, man!" he replied. "I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen."

"Oh dear," sighed Fraser, "I do hope that I haven't further complicated your home life."

Jermaine shrugged. "It ain't complicated," he said. "My life is pretty simple. I work in a packing warehouse twelve hours a week and the rest of the time I take care of Gramps…not that I get much thanks for it."

Fraser was about to say something supportive when Jermaine suddenly covered his face with his hands and began to sob.

"Hey, kid…" Ray felt really sorry for him, but he didn't really know what to say.

"I'm sorry, I'm kinda tired," sniffed Jermaine. "I didn't get much sleep. Gramps woke me up in the night 'coz he needed the bathroom."

"And he can't get there on his own?" asked Ray.

"Nope, not in the night," explained Jermaine, drying his face with the palm of his hand, "he gets around OK with his walking stick in daylight, but he's unsteady at night. Anyway, I had to…y'know, help get him cleaned up."

Ray winced at that image. No one should have to do that kind of thing for their granddad, he thought.

"Jermaine, I'd like to help," said Fraser, "I believe your grandfather may be entitled to professional assistance at home considering his age and health. Does he have comprehensive medical insurance?"

"He just has his old army insurance," replied Jermaine, taking a deep breath to help regain his composure, "but he won't let anyone come in and help. He expects me to do it all even though he says I don't need to do anything for him."

"Your Gramps was in the army?" asked Ray. "Did he see any action?"

"I don't really know, he never talks about that stuff," Jermaine answered.

"It is understandable that your grandfather refuses to acknowledge his care needs," said Fraser, "many people growing older find it hard to accept assistance, it only serves to remind them they can no longer do the things they used to be able to do."

Jermaine nodded. "He's the only family I got; he and Grammy took care of me when I had no one else. I owe him, man."

"Ya don't owe him your life," replied Ray. "Fraser said you were talkin' about goin' to college."

"Yeah, but even if I wasn't at home with Gramps, I can't afford to go to college," sighed Jermaine. "Look, I feel kinda stupid now; can I just get my bike and go home?"

Fraser glanced at Ray, they both had a huge amount of sympathy for this young man. "Of course," he smiled, "but there's no need to feel embarrassment; we understand how difficult all of this must be for you. I'll be in contact with you as soon as I've had chance to make a few telephone calls on your behalf," he added. "I'm confident that there is an organisation out there which will be able to help and support you and your grandfather."

xXxXx

"Ma always says that if she gets to the stage where she can't wipe her own ass, we've gotta put her in a home," said Francesca later that afternoon as they discussed Jermaine and Eugene's situation.

If Fraser was shocked at her crudeness he didn't show it.

"I thought you Italian families looked after your own?" replied Ray, munching on the remains of a pretzel while Dief looked on optimistically.

"She doesn't want to be a burden," explained Francesca, "but when the time comes, I don't think we'll be able to do that to her. Maria and I agreed already that we'd take care of her."

"You and your siblings are fortunate that you'll be able to share the burden," said Fraser, leafing through the file on the Jackson homicide, "Jermaine has the responsibility resting solely on his young shoulders."

"Do ya really think he could get help?" asked Ray.

"Yes," replied Fraser, "I intend to make contact with various agencies which provide support for the elderly. I feel sure that something can be arranged, particularly as Mr Brown is a war veteran. I know of several organisations which exist to support for former servicemen."

"Jermaine's gonna be grateful, buddy," smiled Ray, "the whole thing is takin' its toll on him, ya could see that this mornin'."

"Indeed," agreed Fraser.

Just then, Mort made a rare appearance in the squad room. "Ah, Fraser, I was hoping to find you here," he smiled, "and you too, Detective. I have the final autopsy report on Desmond Jackson and the results of the analysis on that additional blood you found at the crime scene."

"Thank you kindly," acknowledged Fraser, taking the file from the older man.

"You were correct in assuming the blood was not Jackson's," explained Mort. "Well I'll leave you to read that, I have to go and be a Doctor this evening." 

"How are ya gettin' on dealin' with patients who are, y'know…still alive?" grinned Ray. He couldn't get his head around the fact that the mortician did volunteer work as a medical doctor with a homeless charity.

"The principles are the same, Detective," replied Mort, seriously, "I simply have to remember the anaesthetic."

Ray shuddered and Fraser guffawed, he enjoyed Mort's deadpan medical humour.

Ray's phone rang at that moment and he pulled it from his pocket. "Vecchio," he snapped. It was Jermaine and he sounded distressed. "OK, slow down, kid," said Ray, "what happened?" Ray listened as Jermaine garbled an explanation. "Well shouldn't ya call 911?" asked Ray.

At that Fraser took the phone from Ray's hand. "Jermaine, it's Constable Fraser," he said calmly, "tell me what happened. Is it your grandfather?"

"He won't get out of bed, but he says he's OK," Jermaine told the Mountie on the other end of the line. "He's yellin' at me every time I try to help."

"Yelling in pain?" queried Fraser.

"I…I don't think so," replied Jermaine, "I think he's just mad at me for somethin'. I said I'd call 911, but he won't let me. I don't know what's wrong? I didn't know who else to call."

Fraser thought for a moment. It was likely that Eugene was in pain, possibly from his fall yesterday, but he didn't want his grandson to know. "Alright," he said in a reassuring tone, "you did the right thing. I'm on my way." He glanced up at Mort and an idea formed in his mind. "If you don't mind, I'm going to bring a friend."

Fraser clicked off the phone and handed it back to his partner. "Er, are ya sure ya shouldn't just call 911? Let the EMT's deal with him," suggested Ray.

"No Ray, I don't believe that will help," replied Fraser. He looked at Mort. "How do you feel about making a house call?"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

"I'm sorry, man, I shouldn't have called," said Jermaine apologetically as Fraser and Mort stepped into the apartment with Diefenbaker. The young man was clearly very upset; he was shaking a little and he'd been crying.

"Who's at the door?" yelled Eugene from the bedroom.

Jermaine rolled his eyes. "Sometimes he's as deaf as a post, yet other times he can hear a pin drop," he said.

"I know someone else like that," replied Fraser, glancing down at Dief. "This is my good friend Mort," he smiled, "he's a doctor. I thought it might be prudent if your grandfather allowed Mort to examine him."

"Good luck with that," scoffed Jermaine. "He says he doesn't need my help, but he can't get out of bed. He's got to get to the bathroom soon, I'm not gonna change all his bedsheets again."

"Don't worry," replied Fraser. "Mort can be quite persuasive."

"Show me to your grandfather's room," smiled Mort. He was carrying his old battered doctor's bag; he'd had it for years and it had served him well. The equipment it contained now may be modern, but the bag reminded him that he had many years' experience in medicine and he could still help the living.

"Who the hell are you?" yelled Eugene as his eyes focussed on the second stranger in his home in as many days. Jermaine thought it would be a good idea to leave them to it.

"My name is Mort."

"Mort? What the hell kind of name is Mort?" asked Eugene.

"It is, coincidentally, a very good name for a mortician," replied Mort, setting his bag down on the floor.

Eugene's eyes widened, he wasn't sure if he'd heard right. Mort laughed. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not here in that capacity. I'm a doctor; I understand that you've been having a few health issues lately and I'd like to help if I can."

"Well you can't," snapped Eugene, "because there's nothing wrong with me. Now get out."

"I'm sorry, but I promised your grandson," said Mort and he laid out some of his equipment at the foot of Eugene's bed. "I do have somewhere else to be shortly, so may I ask that we get on with it, please?"

Eugene let out a growl of frustration. He leaned forward, trying to get closer to Mort to intimidate him into leaving, but he'd only moved a few inches when he let out a yelp of pain followed by an expletive muttered under his breath.

"Ah," said Mort, "that doesn't sound like nothing to me." He slowly pulled back the bed covers. Eugene realised that there was no arguing with this man and finally submitted. "Now," said Mort, "tell me exactly where it hurts."

xXxXx

"At least he's stopped yelling," said Jermaine, glancing nervously towards the bedroom door.

"He doesn't mean to direct his anger towards you," Fraser pointed out.

"I know," replied Jermaine. "He just hates having to ask me for help, he expects me to know what he needs all the time."

"It can be difficult for the elderly to accept help," offered Fraser, "he has his pride."

"I'm glad I didn't get old and cantankerous," Bob Fraser's voice drifted across the room and it took all of his son's self-control to prevent him jumping out of his skin.

Fraser turned slowly towards the voice and saw his father's ghost standing in the middle of the room dressed, as usual, in his red serge. The younger Fraser raised his eyebrows slowly. "You didn't?" he questioned sarcastically. Bob glared at him.

"I didn't what?" asked a confused Jermaine.

"Ah, oh, er, I…" fumbled Fraser, snapping his head back around to face the young man. "You didn't…you didn't tell me about your grandfather's service record. Did he see much action?"

Jermaine shrugged. "I don't know," he replied, "he never talks about it. Grammy told me once that he was in Vietnam, but Gramps made her stop talking. I kinda assume he saw some pretty horrible things and he doesn't want to drag it all up."

"That would be understandable," agreed Fraser.

"He's not always like this," said Jermaine, "we have more good days than bad days, it's just that the bad days are gettin' worse."

"He should try being dead one day," scoffed Bob.

"Describe a typical day," prompted Fraser, ignoring his father

"Um, well if Gramps is feeling OK he'll be up and dressed before me," began Jermaine, "he cooks an awesome breakfast; he's a great cook, Grammy was too. So I guess after breakfast, if I don't have to be at the warehouse, I might go and run some errands. He stays here and does crosswords, or paints. I get my artistic side from him."

"Ah yes, you mentioned that you have a skill for art and design," smiled Fraser, "I'd like to see some of your work."

"I wouldn't say I had a skill," replied Jermaine, coyly. He got up and pulled a large sketchpad from behind the sofa. "Here, this is my recent stuff."

Fraser opened the sketchpad and was impressed with what he saw. "This is very intricate work," he said.

"I like patterns and shading," explained Jermaine, "sometimes I work on a design all night."

Fraser and Jermaine spent a while looking through his artwork. Fraser was saddened at the way the young man put himself down, dismissing his talent as nothing more than a hobby.

Eventually Mort came out of Eugene's bedroom. "How is he?" asked Fraser.

"I've given him some strong analgesia," explained Mort, "and he's sleeping now. He has some extensive bruising to his hip, but I don't believe there are any broken bones. Of course I suggested he attended the hospital for x-rays, but he refused."

Fraser hung his head. "I should have been more insistent yesterday," he said, rubbing his left eyebrow with his thumbnail. "I should have checked that he wasn't injured, but I took him at his word."

"Hey, man, it's not your fault," smiled Jermaine. "So what's next?" He directed that question to Mort.

"He needs a complete overview of his meds," explained Mort. "The drugs he currently takes have been superseded; if his prescription were to be updated he should find his meds more effective, particularly for his arthritis. The pain can be managed effectively with more modern medication."

Jermaine thought about the things Mort had said. He couldn't even remember the last time his Grandpop had seen a doctor. Eugene had told him he was going to the occasional appointment, but perhaps he hadn't been going at all?

Suddenly, Diefenbaker leapt to his feet and started barking. "What is it?" asked Fraser, but before the animal had a chance to reply there was a crash and a small object came flying in through the window, showering Dief with broken glass. Fraser ran over to him. "Are you alright?" he asked, urgently.

Dief yapped a reply, he'd been lucky, his thick fur had protected him from the shards. He nudged at the object with his snout and Fraser crouched beside him. "It's half a brick," announced the Mountie. He ran over to the broken window and looked down onto the street. "I don't see anyone, but I'll go down and have a look around anyway. Please remain here and stay away from the window."

Leaving a shaken Jermaine in the apartment with Mort, Fraser and Dief ran outside. Diefenbaker started sniffing around, although he wasn't really sure what he was looking for. There were plenty of signs of human activity; several people had walked over the tarmac within the last few minutes, but he couldn't determine any more than that. He whined apologetically at Fraser.

"Don't worry," replied the Mountie. He spun around from left to right, but whoever had thrown the brick had gone. He sighed and crouched down to fuss over Diefenbaker; he was still concerned that his wolf may have been hurt. "I understand that this isn't one of the more desirable neighbourhoods in the city," he began, thinking about the high number of crimes that he'd helped Ray investigate in this area recently, "so it's quite probable that this was a random act of vandalism."

Dief yapped in agreement. He knew what Fraser was thinking, he was thinking the same. There was the possibility that Jermaine's identity as a witness to the murder was out and now his own life was in danger.

Fraser stood up and looked around again. Where was the patrol unit who were meant to be making their presence felt in the area? He'd noticed them when they'd arrived at Jermaine's building earlier, but now they were nowhere to be seen. As he was starting to become concerned, the patrol car drove past. Fraser ran over and waved it down; he recognised the two uniformed officers from the precinct and he explained what had just happened. They agreed to call Lieutenant Welsh and request back up. Fraser was satisfied for now with the prospect of increased patrols and he went back to find Jermaine and Mort.

"I'm sorry, there was no sign of the perpetrator," he apologised, "whoever threw this projectile is long gone. The Chicago Police Department are arranging additional patrols in this area as we speak. We have to consider the possibility that this incident is directly related to the murder investigation."

"I've considered it already," replied Jermaine, his voice shaky. "Do you think we're in danger if we stay here?"

"I'm afraid I have no way of knowing," replied Fraser.

Jermaine looked back towards his grandfather's bedroom. "If it wasn't for him, I'd pack my bags and get outta here right now," he said, "but Gramps isn't gonna want to leave, I know he's not."

"Try not to worry," said Fraser, "the Police protection can be increased further if you wish. This could be an entirely unrelated incident."

Jermaine sighed. "I guess," he conceded, "it's not the first time someone's had a window smashed in this neighbourhood." He bit his lip as he contemplated his options. He wasn't a coward; he wasn't going to run just because of one brick through the window. He'd lived in this neighbourhood his whole life and he knew what it was like. Every day there was a new broken window, more graffiti daubed on the side of a wall, stolen cars, and an increasing number of violent assaults, but he'd seen how other people coped with the violence and they didn't let it rule over their lives. He wasn't about to let a bunch of morons drive him out of his home. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was something more this time though. He really wished he'd ignored what he'd seen in that alleyway and he really wished he could leave town and start a new life somewhere else, but he couldn't do that because he had responsibilities here. "It's always him, isn't it," he said, pointing towards the bedroom door angrily with his thumb, "my life gets more screwed every day and it's all because of him. Sometimes I wish he was dead."

It was a little shocking for Fraser and Mort to hear the young man saying that, but as soon as the words had left his lips, Jermaine turned away and broke down. "I didn't mean that," he sniffed.

"I know," replied Fraser, gently.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

"Now listen up, buddy. You've met these kinda people before so, er, remember the lingo," Ray was concentrating on the road as he drove through the busy morning traffic. "Or maybe ya should just keep quiet, let me do the talkin'. He's my snitch, we got a, er,a mutual trust thing goin' on, y'know…" he trailed off and thought for a moment. "Actually Fraser, why don't ya stay in the car?"

Ray was expecting Fraser to protest, but his buddy stayed silent. Ray briefly glanced across to the passenger seat to find him staring out of the side window. "Fraser?" he said, wondering what was wrong. "Earth to Fraser!"

Fraser suddenly drew a deep breath and turned to face his partner. "I'm terribly sorry, Ray," he said. "What were you saying?"

"I was telling ya to stay in the car while I talk to Zorro," replied Ray.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," frowned Fraser, "Police procedure dictates that an officer should not meet an informant without backup. Considering the volatile nature of the current situation I think that following procedure would be prudent at this juncture." He paused before adding, "despite your apparent aversion to following procedure."

"Oh hardy ha ha," replied Ray. "I guess you're right though. I mean, I know Zorro and he's been pretty useful in the past, but he's still a member of the C-Snakes. I don't trust him."

"I suspect the feeling's mutual," noted Fraser.

Ray nodded. Gangsters and cops weren't known for being best buddies, he thought to himself. "What were ya thinkin' about just now?" he asked. "Ya seemed kinda distracted. Were ya thinkin' about Jermaine?"

"Mmm," nodded Faser. "I apologise. I assure you that my mind will be fully focused on our meeting with your informant."

"Jermaine's a good kid," said Ray, "he's had to grow up too fast, it ain't fair."

They drove in silence for the next few minutes.

"I remember my granddad, my Dad's Dad, I guess he died when I was about, er, eight," said Ray eventually. "Y'know when you're a kid and old people just seem so old? That's how I remember him. I don't think he even had a walkin' stick or anythin', but he lived with us for a few weeks before he passed. I don't even know what killed him in the end, I'll have to ask my Mum."

"My grandparents were both very lucky with their health on the whole," replied Fraser. "My Grandmother believed in the old adage that a healthy mind equalled a healthy body. Being librarians, of course, she was always reading so her mind was constantly stimulated. I believe that it served her very well in the end and her passing was mercifully rapid. They passed within six months of each other in fact; my Grandfather was lost without my Grandmother. I was at the RCMP Training Academy by then."

"So ya never had to care for 'em?" Ray queried.

"No," replied Fraser. "I offered to postpone my training when my Grandmother fell ill, but she wouldn't hear of it." Fraser hung his head sadly.

"She didn't suffer, Son." Bob Fraser's voice came from the back seat of the GTO.

"Thank you," Fraser replied quietly.

"Er, for what?" asked Ray, confused.

"Oh, um…" Fraser's head snapped up. "Thank you for… for taking that corner at a more appropriate speed than you did the last one," he added quickly.

Ray rolled his eyes and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. Fraser decided to ignore his partner's parking misdemeanour.

"Ok, we're here," said Ray, "now remember, stick to the lingo, or keep your mouth shut. I know how to deal with this guy."

"Understood," replied Fraser and they walked to the agreed meeting point. Zorro was already there waiting.

"Hey, homie," grinned Ray and he offered his fist to Zorro for a 'fist bump' greeting, adding, "how's it hangin'?"

Zorro winced at the skinny, white guy trying to use the language of the street like he thought he could fit in. He returned the gesture, bumping his gold clad knuckles against Ray's bare, bony ones. As his sleeve fell away from his arm; Fraser noticed a tattoo and immediately recognised it as the same design he'd seen on Desmond Jackson.

"Hey," Zorro sneered, "What's up?"

"Gang warfare," replied Ray, his hand naturally gravitating towards his gun. "That's what I heard, anyway."

"You heard wrong, bro," replied Zorro.

"OK," Ray glanced at Fraser then back to his snitch. "So what've ya got for me?"

"Figured you'd be tappin' me up for the 411 on DJ soon enough," Zorro answered. "So here I am."

"If by 411 you mean information and assuming that DJ was Desmond Jackson, then you are correct, young man," said Fraser.

Ray rolled his eyes and spun round to glare at his buddy. Fraser looked apologetic.

"You the Mountie?" asked Zorro.

"How did ya guess?" replied Ray, sarcastically. Fraser, of course, was wearing his full dress uniform as usual. "He's my amigo," Ray continued, "he's cool."

Zorro nodded and looked Fraser up and down, slowly circling the Mountie to take in the whole picture. Fraser froze and stared straight ahead while he was doing this.

"C'mon Zorro," said Ray, impatiently, "we haven't got all day. What intel do ya have on Jackson?"

"Y'know, I can't remember now," replied Zorro and he stood in front of Ray expectantly.

Ray sighed and pulled out his wallet. He took out a bundle of folded dollar bills and held them out in front of him. "Does this help jog your memory?" he asked.

Zorro snatched the cash from the Detective's hand and counted it. "Is that it?" he asked. "You expect me to betray my homies and all you can give me is hundred lousy bucks?"

Ray had expected that response and he already had another bundle of bills prepared. "There," he said as he thrust them into Zorro's hand. "Now ya remember, right?"

Zorro made an exaggerated gesture of tapping his finger on his lips and frowning. "It's starting to come back to me," he said.

Fraser took some money from inside his hat and offered it. "I realise this is Canadian currency, but you'll find you can exchange it at any reputable bank," he said.

Zorro took Fraser's cash and studied it closely. "It's red!" he exclaimed with surprise and delight. "And blue! OK, OK, ya got me with your cool berries. I'll tell ya what I know, it ain't much though."

"Spill," urged Ray.

"Well DJ's dead," began Zorro.

Ray did his best to stay calm, they knew that much already.

"He still wore our colours, but he wasn't no C-Snake," continued Zorro. "Fact is there are some that say DJ wanted to blow down the boss."

"He had plans to usurp the leader of your gang and claim the leadership for himself?" Fraser asked, not sure if he'd understood.

"Fraser!" exclaimed Ray, worried that Zorro was going to think the Mountie was making a fool of him.

"Yeah, man!" grinned Zorro, amazed that this crazy Canadian was following the lingo.

"And I assume that others in your social circle have similar aspirations?" continued Fraser.

"For sure," replied Zorro, "it's all kicked off, brother against brother."

"Any idea who whacked Jackson?" Asked Ray.

Zorro shrugged. "There's rumours, but no one knows for sure," he explained. "If anyone did know, they wouldn't spill. We don't know who to trust anymore."

"Is that why you've brought a bodyguard with you today?" asked Fraser, nodding in the direction of a broken window on the first floor of the building behind them.

"How did you…?" Zorro asked, glancing over his shoulder to see his so-called bodyguard running down the fire escape and off into the distance. Some bodyguard, he thought. They had a deal, or so he thought. "Like I said, man, I don't trust no-one no more."

"Perhaps you should recruit another, more trustworthy wingman?" suggested Fraser.

"A whatman?" frowned Zorro.

"It's Canadian for Homie," replied Ray.

"Well not exactly, Ray…" began Fraser, but he was interrupted.

"I can take care of myself!" exclaimed Zorro; he didn't want these cops to think he was weak, or vulnerable. "I carry my own backup," and he slowly pushed back his jacket to reveal a gun tucked into the belt of his jeans.

Ray knew he'd be carrying of course, but the gesture made him make a move for his own weapon.

Zorro raised his hands in the air. "Relax, bro," he said.

"I assume you have all the necessary paperwork for that weapon?" asked Fraser, seriously.

Zorro laughed and nodded.

Ray's hand twitched over his own gun again; was Fraser deliberately trying to get them both shot with his dumb questions? "So, er, we found blood at the crime scene," he said quickly, before Fraser could get them in any more trouble, although Zorro seemed to be humouring the Mountie which was a relief. "It wasn't Jackson's, figure it came from the shooter."

"The blood had been there for over two hours before the homicide occurred," explained Fraser, "so it's possible that Mr Jackson's assailant had been carrying his injury long enough for one of your mutual associates to notice. Perhaps you would be kind enough to make some enquiries on our behalf?"

Zorro laughed again, there was something about this guy in red that he liked. He'd known Ray for a while and they had an understanding, but he wouldn't call it trust exactly. The Mountie was different; he couldn't put his finger on it, but he figured if he was ever in big trouble then this was the guy to go to. "Yeah, I'll make enquiries," he replied, mocking Fraser's turn of phrase. "DJ liked to cut, that was his thing."

"We found no weapons of any kind on the body," explained Fraser. Search teams had been looking in the alley and the surrounding area for the murder weapon. Perhaps they'd also find Jackson's weapon, he thought.

"C'mon, buddy, let's go," said Ray and nodded his appreciation to his snitch.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Zorro," said Fraser, extending his hand for a handshake.

Before the man had a chance to react, Ray grabbed his buddy by the shoulder and dragged him away.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you?" Ray repeated incredulously. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I was being polite Ray," replied Fraser, innocently.

Ray looked at him as they walked back to the car. "Freak."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"Good morning, Detective. Good morning Francesca," Fraser strode into the bullpen wearing his brown uniform. He'd decided to wear it today even though he knew it wasn't strictly regulation any more, but occasionally he felt like rebelling against Inspector Thatcher. Of course as soon as he'd stepped out of the Consulate he'd suffered pangs of guilt and had almost gone back to change, but Diefenbaker had persuaded him not to.

Francesca loved the brown uniform. The red was certainly striking, but the brown seemed to fit him better. It accentuated his body; those broad shoulders and his muscular legs… She sighed, how much longer would it be before they could be together? She was being very patient; she knew he had his reasons and one day he would explain, but the waiting was killing her.

"Francesca, are you alright?" Fraser was concerned that her eyes had glazed over, for a moment he thought she was going to pass out.

"Oh, oh, yes I'm fine," she smiled trying to pull herself together.

"Perhaps you should try some of this," he suggested, opening the pouch on his belt and producing a teabag. "It should help you to feel better."

"Thanks," she replied, half-heartedly. The only thing that would make her feel better right now was if he were to gather her up in his arms and…oh well, she thought, I guess not today.

"Good morning Lieutenant," said Fraser, who had already moved past Francesca's desk.

"Fraser," nodded the Lieutenant. "If you're looking for Vecchio, he's gone to see Mrs Dior. The Sanders case still isn't watertight and I've had Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski chasing me for paperwork. The Jackson case has been a distraction."

"I'm terribly sorry, Lieutenant," replied Fraser, "it's entirely my fault, please file a report with Inspector Thatcher so that I may be suitably reprimanded."

Welsh rolled his eyes. "Just see to it that Vecchio files all his reports."

"Yes Sir," replied Fraser and Welsh went into his office.

"Ah, Detective Dewey," Fraser said as he walked over to the man's desk. He glanced at the desk opposite which was, again, empty. "I see that Detective Huey is absent today."

"Yeah, he's taking some sick leave," replied Dewey, who was trying and failing to eat a bagel without the contents spilling out of the sides.

"Oh dear, I hope it's nothing serious," replied Fraser.

"Nope, he's not sick," replied Dewey with a mouthful of breakfast, "just taking the time off until the enquiry is over."

"Enquiry?" Fraser repeated; he had no idea what the other man was talking about.

"Yeah, you know, he's officially confined to desk duties until the shooting team clear him," Dewey tried to explain, "It's just a formality though, I don't really get why he's freaking out about it so much this time."

"So, Detective Huey was involved in a fatal shooting?" queried Fraser, this was the first he'd heard about it.

"Saved my ass again," replied Dewey with half a smile, "I thought Ray might have mentioned it."

"He has been involved in two rather complex cases recently," said Fraser, making a mental note to remind his partner to keep him up to date with the goings on at the Two Seven. It was difficult for him to liaise effectively if he was kept out of the proverbial loop.

"Well it was no big deal, not really. No worse than any other shooting anyway," Dewey put down the remains of his bagel and Diefenbaker immediately put his paws on the desk, eyeing the food longingly. Dewey shrugged and put it on the floor for the wolf to eat; he was getting in too much of a mess with it anyway. "Last Thursday, there was a report of shots fired and we were in the area. It was a bunch of kids, local gangsters trying to be tough. Two kids were already bleeding on the floor when we got there. I tried to calm things down and Jack went to help this one kid who was in a pretty bad way. That's when some of the kids starting throwing abuse at him."

"At Detective Huey?" Fraser raised his eyebrows questioningly as he spoke.

"Yeah, nasty racist stuff," explained Dewey. "Jack played it cool though, it's nothing he hasn't heard before, but then the gang seemed to separate into the black kids and the white kids and it just got really ugly. They were yelling at Jack; the black kids saying he'd sold out and the white kids…well I'm not going to repeat what they said. We had to back off because we were outnumbered and they were all carrying. I think another kid got knifed, but next thing I knew one of the kids had knocked me to the ground and had a gun to my head. His eyes were…well, it freaked me out. I don't mind telling you Fraser, I thought I was a dead man. Then Jack took his shot and saved my life. It was clean, no question about it."

Fraser pondered this information. "Do you know if the victim and his associates were affiliated to any particular gang?" he asked.

"Er, yeah," replied Dewey, scrabbling about amongst the disorganised mess that was his desk. "C-Snakes," he said eventually, reading from his notes.

Fraser took a breath. "That is the same gang that our victim, Desmond Jackson, belonged to," he said. "I understand that they are in the middle of some internal upheaval at this juncture," he continued.

Dewey nodded. "Yeah, well at this rate they'll all be dead soon anyway."

Fraser frowned at Dewey's dismissive attitude although he understood it given the circumstances. "I spoke with Detective Huey two days ago," he said, "and I must say that he seemed terribly out of sorts."

Dewey shrugged. "Yeah…" he trailed off as he thought about the last time he'd spoken to his partner. As cops they both knew this wasn't the first time they'd be involved in a fatal shooting and it, sadly, wouldn't be the last. Usually they could shrug it off; it was easy to become blasé about this type of situation. This time, though, things had been slightly different and Jack had taken it hard. "Maybe, I should, er, I should probably call him," admitted Dewey.

xXxXx

"I'm sure I told ya, buddy," frowned Ray down the telephone, "it was last week."

"If you did I've forgotten," replied Fraser. He started to wonder again if he was unwell. He looked around his cramped office and tried to remember if he'd forgotten anything important.

"Nah, ya never forget anythin'," shrugged Ray. "Sorry I missed ya this mornin'," he added, "Welsh was on my back about the Sanders case."

"The Lieutenant mentioned that Assistant States Attorney Kowalski was keen to move the case towards a conclusion," said Fraser, checking that everything on his desk was as he'd left it.

"Yeah," nodded Ray, "and what The Stella wants, The Stella gets." He stopped short of adding… "from me." Ray had been known to deflect Welsh for over a month by making a different excuse every day for why he hadn't filed a particular report, but it was different when it was his ex-wife. He didn't want to let her down, not again. The least he could do was keep her happy now that their relationship was a purely professional one. God knows I've let her down enough already, he thought.

Fraser allowed his friend a moment of reflection. He'd noticed Ray often went quiet at the mention of Stella. Eventually he said, "Indeed. Anyway, the reason for my telephone call is to ask you a favour. Please feel free to say no."

"No," replied Ray with a grin, thoughts of Stella pushed aside.

"But…but I haven't explained what the favour entails yet, Ray." Fraser was rather taken aback at his friend's apparent unhelpfulness.

"I'm kiddin'," laughed Ray. "What d'ya need me to do?"

"Ah, I see," Fraser was very relieved. "Mort intends to visit Eugene Brown again this afternoon and I had planned to accompany him," he explained, "but unfortunately something, um, rather important has come up at the Consulate and Inspector Thatcher has requested my presence."

"Somethin' important?" Ray repeated. "Er, bathroom needs cleanin' again, does it?"

"No Ray," replied Fraser, ignoring his partner's sarcasm, although Ray was closer to the truth than he realised. He paused before adding, "Not the bathroom."

"Oh jeez, buddy!" exclaimed Ray. "What has the Ice Queen got ya doin' this time?"

"The Inspector has requested that the silver tea service is polished before the Italian Ambassador's visit tomorrow," Fraser explained sheepishly.

"Fraser, you're a cop!" Ray was fuming now. "And a goddam good one too. Is this because of the brown uniform thing? I thought ya said it was OK to wear it?"

Fraser had already explained to Ray several times that the brown uniform, whilst not in common usage, was still regulation. "She would prefer me to wear a more recent incarnation of our uniform.

"What is it with you and her?" asked Ray.

Fraser almost fell off his chair. "I, um, er, nothing," he insisted, "nothing at all. I have no idea as to what you are referring. I can assure you that my relationship with the Inspector is strictly that of superior officer and subordinate." Fraser rushed all of that out without taking a breath, his cheeks now glowing with embarrassment.

"Hey, OK buddy," replied Ray, slightly taken aback. "I just meant ya should stand up for yourself. Turnbull should too. She walks all over you guys, it's humiliatin'."

"Ah, oh I see, of course," mumbled Fraser, "I will take your advice into consideration, thank you kindly."

"So, er, I guess ya want me to drive Mort to Jermaine's place?" asked Ray.

"Yes please," replied Fraser, relieved that the subject had been changed. "I'd be most grateful."

"OK, no problem, I wanna run a few things about the C-Snakes past the kid anyway," replied Ray, "Frannie found some mugshots, but it's a long shot, I know."

After he'd finished talking to Ray, Fraser glanced at Dief who was sleeping under his desk. Sometimes he couldn't help but envy his wolf's ability to relax. He got up from his chair and picked up the silver polish and cloth that the Inspector had unceremoniously dumped on his desk minutes earlier and went to start his work.

Ray's words were playing on his mind as he polished each cup and saucer to perfection. He'd had a similar conversation with the real Ray Vecchio two years earlier, soon after Inspector Thatcher had taken over at the Consulate. Back then he'd agreed with his friend; he'd realised that he did allow her to push him around and with Ray's encouragement he'd been able to stand up for himself, although he was immediately fired for his trouble. Fortunately the Inspector had never followed it through. After that incident Fraser had felt that he'd begun to gain her respect, but now things were different.

There was the 'contact'. Not to mention the other near misses since then.

The Inspector was insistent that they never spoke about the incident on the train and he had, so far, respected her wishes, but he was starting to think that perhaps they should talk about how they felt. Maybe it would clear the air and stop some of the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. It seemed that Inspector Thatcher's way of dealing with her conflicted feelings was to treat him like a slave.

Fraser sighed, he would never understand women.

XxXxX

"You again," Eugene Brown was not pleased to see Mort. "And who the hell are you?" he pointed to Ray with his walking stick. "Jermaine, will you please stop bringing strangers into our home!"

"It was my decision to return to see you again today," Mort explained.

Jermaine bit his tongue. "Gramps, these people are trying to help you."

Eugene shuffled off towards his bedroom. "OK, let's get this over with, he sighed. "I'm fine so it shouldn't take too long. Then you can all just leave me alone."

"And what about me?" asked Jermaine, his voice shaking with anger. He'd had a bad morning; his Grandpop was clearly in pain again and he'd been taking it out on his grandson. "Who's gonna help me, man?" he asked, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of despair. "It's not all about you, Gramps, I have a life too y'know."

Eugene shook his head sadly. "Your Grammy and I did not raise you so you could speak to me like that," he said.

Jermaine grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair where he'd left it and threw it around his shoulders. "I'm going out," he announced and stormed out of the apartment.

Mort and Ray exchanged a glance, they both felt a little uncomfortable, but still they felt a compulsion to help.

"I'll go after the kid," said Ray. Mort nodded and went to find Eugene lying on his bed.

"You can poke and prod me all you like," he said, "you won't find anything wrong."

Mort attempted to engage the older man in conversation as he began to examine him. Eugene responded cordially enough, but Mort realised he wasn't getting through to him. "Your hip is still causing you pain, isn't it," stated Mort.

"I've had pain in the past and I'm still here," shrugged Eugene, "a beat up hip ain't gonna kill me."

"I imagine the wounds you sustained during your time in the military were much more painful," replied Mort. It was a gamble; Eugene might close up completely if the subject was too difficult for him to talk about. "I noticed the scars," Mort continued.

Immediately, Eugene's face changed and Mort thought he'd blown it. "That's none of your goddam business," Eugene snapped.

"Agreed," Mort nodded, "although your medical history may have some bearing on your current condition, so perhaps you should enlighten me?"

"I was a soldier, I picked up a few battle scars is all," replied Eugene dismissively.

Mort felt like shaking the older man by the shoulders with frustration. "As a former serviceman, there is plenty of assistance available to you. There's no shame in accepting help, you served your country, allow your country to return the favour."

Eugene was silent. "I didn't do no-one no favours," he replied after a long pause.

"May I ask which campaigns you were involved in?" asked Mort. "I have an interest in military history." Finally he felt he was starting to get somewhere.

"I went to a few parties," replied Eugene, "didn't see much action until 'Nam though."

"Did you sustain the injuries to your back in Vietnam?" queried Mort. He'd lived through the Vietnam war and he was aware of the trauma suffered by so many military personnel. He had spent some time working at a veteran's hospital and he hoped Eugene hadn't suffered as much as some of the patients he'd treated there.

"Yep," nodded Eugene slowly. He never talked about what had happened to him, not even to his wife. She knew the bare minimum, but he'd never spoken to her about how he'd felt, or what he'd seen and what he'd had to do to survive. Eugene could never bear the thought of her knowing all of that. Now here was this doctor with a strange accent and a slightly unusual bedside manner that he'd known for barely two days and for some reason Eugene was prepared to open his soul to him. Not too much, there was no need, but he felt somehow that Mort would understand. "I was heading for retirement," he began, "I'd been pushing papers around a desk for nearly five years, but they needed someone with experience to lead a team. It was meant to be a recon mission. We'd be in and out in three days they told us, but…but it didn't work out like that."

There was another moment of silence while Mort absorbed the information and Eugene tried desperately not to remember too much. Eventually Mort spoke. "Were you…were you captured?" he asked.

Eugene nodded. "For a while," he said. "You…you have no idea what…" he took a breath, the memories were starting to come back now and this was exactly what he didn't want. He gritted his teeth, he wasn't about to break down; he was over all of this, wasn't he?

Mort's mind was racing now; he'd begun to win the other man's trust and that's exactly what he needed to do if he was to persuade Eugene to accept his help. "If you were going to suggest that I have no idea what it was like for you then you may be wrong there," Mort spoke quietly and he was fighting to keep the trembling out of his voice. In doing so his accent became a little stronger; the consonants became slightly harder and he rolled his r's even more than he usually did. He had the perfect opportunity here and he couldn't let it go by, he just couldn't. He would have to deal with the personal consequences later. He glanced down at his arm. A hundred doubts were playing with his mind; he was about to reveal something he'd never revealed to anyone, not since med school. He'd made a deal with himself and he'd stuck with it for all of these years. He began to roll up his sleeve. "I do have some similar experiences to draw on," he said as he revealed the numbers he'd been branded with.

It took Eugene a minute to realise the significance of the tattoo, but then he understood and there was no need to discuss it further. He nodded in silent understanding and then let out a slow breath. "So, you mentioned that I could try some new meds," he said.

Mort smiled and rolled his shirt sleeve down again. "Yes," he replied, "I believe your quality of life could be improved." Mort was determined to get Eugene some help now. He had contacts at a couple of veteran's charities through his volunteer work and he'd call them as soon as he could.

The two men chatted amiably while they waited for Ray and Jermaine to return. Mort had just gone to the kitchen to make some coffee when there was an almighty crash.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"Leave me alone, man!" Jermaine quickened his pace as he realised Ray was behind him.

"C'mon," urged Ray, wishing Fraser was here to do the talking instead. "Look, er, I get that you're mad right now…"

"I've had enough," Jermaine interrupted him, "I can't do it anymore."

"OK," said Ray, finally catching up with the young man, "so what are ya gonna do?"

"I don't know," shrugged Jermaine. "I'll find somewhere to go."

Ray paused and tried to remember an Inuit story. Fraser always had an Inuit story in a situation like this, but the trouble with Fraser's stories was that they had a habit of going in one ear and out the other. _I really should pay more attention,_ he thought.

"Here's the, er, the thing," Ray began, "I figure you're a good kid and if your Grandpop wasn't so difficult you'd be more OK with helpin' him out at home, am I right?"

"I guess," replied Jermaine who had finally stopped walking.

"Y'know, my Dad and me kinda fell out," Ray went on, "didn't really talk proper for years. We're good now, but I, er, I…well we can't ever get that time back."

"You think I should put up with him because he's gonna be dead soon anyway?" queried Jermaine.

"That's not what I said," frowned Ray. He really wasn't good at this kind of thing. "Fraser said you could get people in to, er, to help. We gotta make him see it's OK to let someone else take care of him, Jermaine, so he can get back to just bein' your Grandpop."

Jermaine nodded. Of course Ray was making perfect sense. He didn't really want to leave; he just wanted his Gramps back. "He's so stubborn," he sighed.

"I know, I've met him," replied Ray with a grin, "but you've never seen Fraser work; he can talk anyone into anythin'."

"OK," replied Jermaine, "and thanks, man. I guess we should go back now."

XxXxXx

"Constable Fraser, you've missed one," Inspector Meg Thatcher peered into the display cabinet.

"Actually, Sir, there are two cups and a saucer still in need of my attention," replied Fraser, "but unfortunately the polish ran out. Constable Turnbull has gone to the store to replenish our supplies."

"Hmm," said the Inspector, "well see to it that the task is completed soon."

"Of course," Fraser assured her, lowering his gaze submissively.

Inspector Thatcher turned to leave, but Fraser called her back. "Sir," he began hesitantly, "may I…er, that is I was wondering if…what I mean to say is…"

"Spit it out, Fraser!" exclaimed Meg.

"Yes Sir, my apologies," Fraser replied. "It's just that I was thinking, perhaps, that we should consider, um, employing a housekeeper."

"A housekeeper?" repeated the Inspector. "What on earth for?"

"Well Sir," began Fraser, trying desperately to keep his voice even, "I thought it may be prudent. It would liberate Constable Turnbull and myself for more pressing RCMP matters."

The Inspector rolled her eyes. Inside she knew he was right of course; she was well aware that she took advantage of Turnbull's eagerness to please. She also knew she could get Fraser to do almost anything she wanted…almost anything. She tried to think of a retort, something cutting that would put her junior officer in his place, but then her eyes met his…those piercing blue eyes that had burned deep into her soul as they'd stood atop that runaway train. Suddenly she was back there; the wind blowing, the bright sunshine glaring off the shiny metal of the roof of the carriage…and Fraser's blue eyes…then the surge of electricity as their lips touched and she'd finally allowed herself to feel…

Meg let out a whimper as she remembered and the noise snapped her mind back to the present. Fraser was still standing in front of her, perhaps a little closer than she remembered and those eyes… Oh why do I treat him so badly? She pleaded with herself for an answer. "I…I…" she stammered and Fraser took another step closer.

Suddenly Fraser saw vulnerability in her eyes and he felt an overwhelming urge to reassure her that everything was going to be alright.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Meg was finally able to breath.

"I know," replied Fraser. He could feel his heart rate quickening and he took another step closer. It was happening again he realised, but every time this happened he was never quite sure if he was reading her signals right or not. At the time it always felt right, so right, but then later…

"Fraser…Ben…" Meg wanted him, why did she find it so difficult to let him in?

Fraser reached out a hand and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. Her lips parted in anticipation and he leaned in…

The shrill ring of the telephone shattered the moment. Fraser stumbled backwards and Meg slumped forward, steadying herself with a hand on the desk.

"Telephone," said Fraser, unnecessarily.

"Yes, yes I know," she snapped, then added, "well answer it, Constable."

Her tone was like a knife through his heart. They'd come so close again, but now they were back to normal, just like that. It hurt that she was apparently able to switch back so easily, although of course he did exactly the same thing. "Yes, Sir," he replied, resisting the urge to salute and he crossed to the desk. "You've reached the…" he began, but the voice on the other end cut him off.

"Fraser, it's me," the tone of Ray's voice instantly gave away his distress. "You'd better get to the hospital..."

Fraser's blood ran cold as he listened to Ray's quick explanation. Then without a word to the Inspector he ran out of the Consulate.

Meg had no idea what was going on. "I'll…I'll advertise for a housekeeper," she called after him.

xXxXx

"Coffee?" Ray asked the question, but he knew what the answer would be.

"No, thank you Ray," replied Fraser. He could almost have been on sentry duty outside the Consulate, except for the fact he'd turned his head to speak to Ray.

"Come and sit down, buddy," Ray urged, "we could be here a while."

"I'd prefer to stand," Fraser responded, glancing across to Jermaine who was sitting with his head in his hands. Medical staff hurried along the hospital corridors and people with various injuries hobbled around accompanied by concerned relatives. Fraser felt uncomfortable in this particular hospital because it held too many bad memories, so he preferred to stand and wait for news.

"Er, I know I'm not a doctor, or, er…" began Ray, "but if it means anythin', I think Mort's gonna be OK. He was, y'know, conscious and…" Ray trailed off. He took a deep breath before adding, "I'm sorry I left 'em, Fraser."

The corners of Fraser's mouth twitched into a sympathetic smile. "None of this is your fault, Ray," he said. Then his face fell. "I shouldn't have involved Mort in this situation in the first place considering the potential for danger." He paused, closing his eyes briefly and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just hope Eugene is alright," he added quietly.

Ray shrugged. "I dunno, Fraser, he did not look good," he said, emphasising the word 'not' and shuddering as he remembered the scene that he and Jermaine had discovered at the apartment. "Mort helped the ambulance guy, which, I'm tellin' ya was amazin' 'coz his arms were cut up pretty bad. Um, they had to do somethin' with a tube. I, er," he lowered his voice, glancing back over his shoulder at Eugene's grandson, "I don't think the old guy was breathin'."

"And there was no sign of the assailants?" queried Fraser.

Ray shook his head. _If we'd just been a few minutes earlier…_ "I'll, er, go and sit with Jermaine," said Ray, patting Fraser on the back supportively.

Ray sat down and tried to offer some words of comfort to Jermaine. For the second time that day he wished he could remember one of Fraser's Inuit stories.

Eventually, to Fraser's great relief, the double doors opened and there was Mort. A nurse was pushing him in a wheelchair and his forearms were heavily bandaged. Defensive wounds, Fraser realised immediately. "Mort!" exclaimed the Mountie. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," replied Mort, smiling broadly. He knew the effects of the painkillers would wear off eventually, but for now he was enjoying being pain free.

"You must be Constable Fraser," smiled the nurse. "The word 'fine' is not how I'd describe your friend's condition," she continued, "but I've been assured that you'll be taking good care of him." 

"Of course," replied Fraser, looking at Mort with concern.

"Good," nodded the nurse, "because the doctor wanted him to stay in overnight for observation."

"There's no need for that," said Mort with a frown.

The nurse looked unconvinced. "I'll organise his meds and discharge papers," she said, "I won't be long."

"Is there any news yet on Eugene Brown?" asked Fraser.

"Sorry, I think he's still in surgery," replied the nurse and she headed for the Nurses Station.

Mort attempted to stand up, but Fraser held him down firmly by the shoulder. "Please, Mort, if our roles were reversed you would be insisting that I rest, am I right?"

Mort laughed. "I have a feeling that you'd be an even worse patient than I am," he said.

Fraser wheeled Mort over to where Ray and Jermaine were sitting. Mort observed Jermaine with concern and glanced uneasily at Fraser. "Your grandfather was remarkable today," he said. "He fought bravely. I don't know where he found the strength."

Jermaine looked up at him. "And he got knifed for his trouble," he sighed. He looked at his surroundings, his head was spinning and he couldn't think straight. He looked back to Mort. "What happened?" he asked. All he knew was that he and Ray had returned to the apartment to find the place turned upside down and his Grandpop lying on the floor with Mort kneeling beside him trying to stem the flow of blood with a towel.

"There were two of them," began Mort, "they kicked in the door and started ransacking your apartment. Your Grandfather tried to stop them, I'm afraid I was very little help. He was able to overpower one of them and had him restrained on the floor, but he just wasn't strong enough and the other one attacked him."

"Did both men have weapons?" asked Fraser.

"I'm not sure," replied Mort, "I'm sorry, it's a bit of a blur."

"We're gonna need your statement," said Ray, "but it can wait."

Mort nodded appreciatively. "I was able to pull the attacker away, but I was too late and then he turned on me with his knife," he continued.

Jermaine looked at Mort's arms and winced as he thought about what the bandages concealed. Then he thought about his Grandpop. "Gramps…" he whimpered.

"I did everything I could for him," said Mort. _I hope it was enough, _he thought to himself, laying a hand on the young man's forearm. "Your Grandfather is strong," he added. His words seemed to give Jermaine some strength and he sat a little straighter in his chair, breathing deeply.

"Ray, if I could have the use of your vehicle, I'll drive Mort to the Consulate," said Fraser. "You can stay with me, Mort, while you recover."

"That's very kind of you, replied Mort, "and I will take you up on your kind offer, but I'd prefer to stay here for now until Eugene is out of surgery."

Ray had his car keys in his hand and glanced at Fraser, raising his eyebrows questioningly. Fraser hesitated for a moment before nodding. He would have preferred it if Mort was resting in bed, but he knew he wouldn't be able to get his friend to leave the hospital until they had an update on Eugene's condition.

xXxXx

Sometime later, Ray was sitting at the grand mahogany dining table at the Consulate reading back over Mort's statement. He looked up as Fraser walked back into the room. "This is pretty thorough," he said, waving the statement at his buddy, "considerin' Mort said it was a blur."

"Working with the Police for so many years has honed his observational skills," noted Fraser.

Ray nodded. "I'll get this filed and then go see if I can, er, drag Jermaine away from the hospital. I said he could stay at my place for a while, I dunno if he was listenin' though, y'know."

"He was determined to stay at his grandfather's bedside until he regains consciousness," replied Fraser, "although the doctor suggested it would be a day or two before his condition visibly improves."

"How's Mort?" asked Ray, tucking the papers into a manila file.

"He refused to allow me to assist him," replied Fraser, "so I can only assume that he is in bed now. I'll go up and check on him shortly."

"He's worse than Eugene for bein' stubborn," commented Ray.

"Indeed," agreed Fraser, tugging on his left earlobe thoughtfully.

"Sounds like he saved Eugene's life though," Ray added as he thought over the details Mort had given in his statement. "Docs at the hospital agreed."

"It was a desperate situation," Fraser gathered up the three empty mugs that were on the table as he spoke. He and Mort had drunk one of Mort's favourite blends of tea and Ray, of course, had wanted coffee, extra strong, extra sweet. The sticky residue formed a swirly pattern at the bottom of Ray's mug and Fraser quickly took the cups to the kitchen to wash them.

Ray followed him out into the hall and made a fuss of Dief while Fraser thought about the events of earlier that day as he washed and dried. "Hmm," he said as he walked back towards the other room. "Mort's statement raises questions," he said, rubbing his thumbnail over his eyebrow. He seated himself in one of the ornate dining chairs.

"Yeah, like why were gangsters armed only with blades?" replied Ray who was standing in the doorway with Dief. "We know they're all carryin', we saw Zorro's piece and his buddy's."

"Desmond Jackson's preferred weapon of choice was a knife, according to Zorro," Fraser pointed out, "perhaps this is a new trend?"

"Zorro spoke like Jackson was some kinda freak though," noted Ray. "Gangs have guns, that's just how it is, buddy."

"Therefore we could conclude that Eugene and Mort's assailants were not affiliated to a gang?" suggested Fraser.

Ray nodded. "It doesn't feel like a gang crime," he said. "If their plan was to silence Jermaine, why bother smashin' up the TV?"

"I'm not entirely sure what a gang crime feels like, Ray, but the evidence would suggest this was a random, violent robbery attempt," Fraser stated. "Perhaps with the intention of stealing valuable items, but once they realised the premises was occupied they decided to cause as much damage as possible to both property and persons."

"Mort and Eugene were in the wrong place at the wrong time," sighed Ray, agreeing with Fraser's theory. "Which sucks." It just made the guilt harder to bear; he should never have left the two men alone in the apartment, he thought to himself, but at the time his thoughts had been with Jermaine. The way the kid had stormed out of the apartment, Ray had been afraid he might never return. Ray turned to leave. "I'll see ya later, buddy," he said. "Call me if anythin' comes up."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

"Constable Turnbull, that was delicious," smiled Mort, wiping his mouth with the crisp, white napkin he'd been provided with. "And thank you for cutting it up for me," he added quietly.

"You're a guest of the Dominion of Canada," beamed Turnbull, "the least I can do is to ensure you have a proper breakfast. I hope the Royal Suite was comfortable for you last night."

"It was the most luxurious night's sleep I've had in a long time, Constable," replied Mort with a smile. "I do hope my staying here isn't inconveniencing Inspector Thatcher too much, she seemed somewhat troubled last night."

"Ah, the Inspector…um," Constable Turnbull knew the Inspector wasn't happy when he and Fraser allowed people to stay at the Consulate, but he liked Mort and he wasn't about to let his Superior Officer cause an upset. Quickly the young Mountie thought of an excuse. "She is in the middle of some complex negotiations with the Italian Ambassador regarding the parking arrangements for official vehicles at next month's International…" but before he could finish, Fraser walked back into the room.

Diefenbaker hurriedly swallowed the remains of the sausage he'd procured from Mort before Fraser noticed it and gave him a lecture on his salt intake.

"That was Francesca on the telephone," Fraser announced, pretending he hadn't seen Dief licking his lips. "There have been two further break-ins at residential premises in Eugene and Jermaine's neighbourhood overnight. It is becoming increasingly apparent that these incidents are unrelated to the C-Snakes, or the murder of Desmond Jackson."

"I find it difficult to comprehend random acts of violence," said Turnbull, sadly as he cleared away the last of the breakfast things.

"As do I," agreed Fraser. "Francesca has been unable to contact Detective Vecchio on his cellular telephone, I imagine he is still wallowing at this hour and has not yet switched on the device. I will go to his apartment to pass on this new information, but first I should look at your dressings, Mort."

"No," Mort answered abruptly. Instantly he regretted his tone, but he couldn't allow anyone else to see his bare arms.

Fraser was a little stunned, Mort had never spoken to him like that before. "But…but they will need changing," he said.

"I can do it myself," replied Mort, glancing down at his bandaged arms. It would be difficult to change his own bandages, he conceded, but if he let Fraser help his secret past wouldn't be a secret any more.

Mort briefly contemplated telling his young friend all about it, but yet again this wasn't the right time. He knew Fraser wouldn't force him into talking about anything that made him feel uncomfortable, so perhaps he should just get it over with? The longer he left it, the more he tried to find the words and the more difficult the prospect became. No, not today…he wasn't ready, but maybe soon he would be.

Mort smiled warmly at Fraser. "You have to assist Detective Vecchio with the investigation," he said, his voice much more gentle now. "I'll be fine, I can manage."

Fraser frowned and rubbed his eyebrow with his thumbnail.

"Let me help you with these, Constable Turnbull," said Mort, standing up and carrying his dirty plate to the sink. He realised Fraser would be aware he was deliberately attempting to show that he was capable of taking care of himself, but he did it anyway.

Fraser didn't want to argue with his friend. "Alright," he said, reluctantly.

"Really, Fraser, I'm fine," Mort insisted and he started to hum one of his favourite arias.

Fraser nodded. "If you require any assistance, Constable Turnbull is quite…" he began, but he trailed off as he watched Turnbull washing up. The cup in the younger Mountie's hand slipped and dropped into the bowl of water, splashing bubbles all over his face.

"Oh dear," Turnbull exclaimed, flustered.

Fraser passed him a teatowel. "As I was saying, Mort," Fraser continued, slightly less convincingly than before, "Constable Turnbull is quite capable.

xXxXx

Fraser walked briskly along the Chicago streets following a well-worn path to Ray's apartment building. He considered breaking into a run for the purposes of a cardiovascular workout, but he glanced down at Diefebaker who was trotting at his heels and remembered the wolf had probably eaten something unhealthy for breakfast and running may not agree with his digestion. A brisk walk would have to do.

Dief looked up at Fraser. "I agree," Fraser spoke thoughtfully, "Mort was behaving very strangely this morning. Of course he may simply be in pain from his injuries, but I am concerned that there is something he's not telling me."

Dief yapped and ran a few paces ahead. For a moment Fraser thought he had decided to get some exercise, but then he noticed the discarded fried chicken carton the wolf was sniffing. Fraser caught up with the wolf and knelt next to him. "No," he said firmly, pulling Dief's muzzle around so he could look him in the eye.

Fraser sighed as Diefenbaker whined a response. "I'm sorry, but you don't need me to tell you how unhealthy this is," he said.

The wolf shook himself free from Fraser's grasp.

"We have to look after ourselves," continued Fraser, "neither of us is getting any younger." 

Dief yapped a reply and Fraser smiled. "Of course I'll take care of you in your old age," he said softly and took a moment to ruffle Dief's ears affectionately. Dief leaned into his touch and made a throaty noise of appreciation.

"Good lord, Son; there's no need for that sort of thing in public, you're a Mountie," Bob Fraser rolled his eyes in disgust as he spoke.

"Hello Dad," said Fraser, nuzzling his face into Dief's soft fur before standing up to greet the sudden appearance of his father. "I am not afraid to demonstrate my feelings anymore," he said. That wasn't strictly true, but he at least found it easy where Diefenbaker was concerned.

"Your mother and I had a pet once, a beautiful Siberian husky. Her name was Princess Dollypants," began Bob.

"You had a husky called Princess Dollypants?" queried Fraser, incredulously.

"It's a long story," replied Bob, shaking his head shamefully. "Anyway, the sled dogs were jealous, it all got rather ugly. I tried to persuade them to sort it out amongst themselves, but you'd be surprised how immature animals can be."

Fraser glanced down at his half-wolf. "No, that doesn't surprise me in the least," he said. "Was there anything important you needed, Dad? Or is this just a social call."

"I just wanted to see how old Eugene Brown was getting along," replied Bob.

"He's going to be alright," said Fraser, "It was touch and go yesterday though."

"He's made it through tough situations before," noted Bob.

"Hmm," agreed Fraser, "Mort mentioned he had some experience of military service, from what I could gather he was involved in conflict situations." Mort hadn't gone into detail, but had made it clear to Fraser that Jermaine's grandfather had experienced traumatic events.

"Your Uncle Tiberius was in the army for a while," explained Bob, "just after unification of the armed forces. He didn't see any action, though, unless you count the Great Northern Sled Race Stand Off."

"Was that a particularly bloody battle?" Fraser asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"There's no need for that tone," scolded Bob, "it was a very tricky situation; the negotiators did well to avoid bloodshed."

"I see," Fraser made a mental note to research this particular episode in Canadian military history.

"Tiberius would have made a good soldier," Bob continued, "if only he hadn't gone through that…phase."

"And what 'phase' exactly are we talking about here, Dad?" asked Fraser, miming quotation marks around the word 'phase' for emphasis. His Uncle Tiberius had, apparently, gone through a lot of 'phases' in his life.

"That's not important, son," said Bob, dismissively, "let's just say the commanding officers didn't appreciate all the sequins."

Fraser shook his head in disbelief.

"Your friend Mort was lucky yesterday," said Bob, changing the subject.

"I can't shake the feeling that he's keeping something from me," replied Fraser, rubbing his eyebrow with his thumb as he walked.

"He is," Bob stated, flatly.

Fraser stopped dead in his tracks and spun round to face his father, but the ghost had disappeared.

xXxXx

Lieutenant Welsh strode over to Jack Huey's desk holding his badge and gun out for him. "You're clear," he announced, "good work, Detective. Now get off your butt and go help Vecchio and the Mountie find whoever incapacitated our mortician."

Huey breathed a sigh of relief and clipped his badge to its rightful place on his belt. "I'll drive," he said to his partner.

Tom Dewey swigged the last of his coffee. He preferred to drive, but he thought he'd let it go this time under the circumstances. "OK," he said and followed Jack outside.

The only pool car left was the bright yellow one. Not very inconspicuous if we have to tail someone, thought Dewey, but he wasn't about to start using his own car for work, not after all the incidents of cars getting blown up in the line of duty.

Huey and Dewey were glad to be back out on the streets. Dewey had chosen to use Jack's suspension time to catch up on some paperwork; he wouldn't have felt right leaving his partner driving a desk while he went out alone, or partnered up with someone else, even if it had only been temporary. He always knew Jack would be cleared eventually, but the days of waiting had felt like weeks. It wasn't the first time either of them had been in that situation, but Jack had taken it hard this time. It had been an ugly situation though and the kid who died had been so young, no more than sixteen. Tom sighed; perhaps they were both getting too old for this game?

They arrived in Jermaine's neighbourhood and acknowledged the occupants of the patrol car as it circled the area.

"They haven't been much use," shrugged Huey, "maybe our perps are invisible?"

"Yeah, or maybe Shelley and Appleton have been distracted by doughnuts," replied Dewey.

"I'm surprised Appleton can still get his buttons fastened," laughed Huey.

Dewey laughed too. It was good to see his partner relax again.

Just then the radio crackled to life. It was Francesca with details of a robbery in progress. The patrol car had obviously got the same message as Officer Shelley suddenly spun the vehicle around and followed the bright yellow pool car to the address Francesca had given them.

The four Police officers ran into the building and interrupted two burglars. One of them had a knife and lashed out at Huey and Appleton as they tried to arrest him. Huey immediately drew his gun and the perpetrator quickly dropped his weapon.

XxXxX

"I'm sorry I woke you," Fraser apologised for the third time since he'd arrived at Ray's apartment. "I assumed you would be up at this hour."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't," snapped Ray, more harshly than he'd meant to, he really wasn't good in the mornings. "Jermaine and I stayed up late, er, talkin' last night," Ray explained, running his fingers through his flat, bed hair.

Fraser glanced at the popcorn scattered on the floor by Ray's sofa. "Talking while watching the Bears game, by any chance?"

Ray shrugged as his partner. "Yeah, well I thought it'd be good for Jermaine, y'know, take his mind off things."

Fraser smiled. "That was thoughtful of you," he agreed. "Were you able to ease Jermaine's worries at all?"

Ray shook his head. "I told him what the docs said, about his Grandpop bein' in good shape, but, er, I guess he's just scared. He feels bad 'coz of the things he's been sayin' lately."

"I imagine he is struggling with his conflicted feelings," agreed Fraser, "his desire to be free of the responsibility of caring for his grandfather has manifested itself recently in dark thoughts. Now, faced with the prospect of Eugene's demise, Jermaine has realised that is the last thing he really wants."

"Er, yeah, like I said, he feels bad," Ray agreed, marvelling at Fraser's ability to use so many long words to say something quite simple.

Ray poured himself a cup of coffee, pausing for a moment to inhale the aroma before throwing in a handful of candies. Today was going to be a tough day, he figured. He glanced across at Fraser who was picking up the stray popcorn before Diefenbaker could eat it all and wondered how his buddy could function without caffeine. Maybe there's more to that chewy pemmican stuff than the Canadians like to let on, he thought to himself. Before he could take a second sip of coffee, his phone rang. It was Francesca letting them know about the arrests.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

"Constable Tunrbull has offered to drive Mort to the station for the identity parade," said Fraser as they drove the familiar journey from Ray's apartment to the Two Seven. He placed Ray's phone on the dashboard of the GTO next to his Stetson.

"Greatness," replied Ray, "I hope he can ID the bastards," he added.

Mort had been badly shaken by the attack, although he had surprised everyone, including himself, by the number of significant details he'd been able to recall once he'd focussed his mind.

"It does appear fairly safe to assume that the young men in custody are the ones who attacked Mort and Eugene," nodded Fraser, "although we should remember that they have not yet been proven guilty in a court of law."

"Dewey's sure they're gonna squeal as soon as they're made," snarled Ray. "They'll pay for what they did."

Fraser turned to Jermaine who was in the back seat with Diefenbaker. "How did you sleep?" he asked the young man.

Jermaine shrugged. "Dunno," he replied. "Ray's couch is real comfortable, but, y'know…" he trailed off.

"Hopefully your mind will be put at rest this morning after visiting your Grandfather," Fraser smiled encouragingly. "The nurse I spoke to this morning indicated that he was in good spirits."

Ray had arranged for someone to wait at the Precinct to drive Jermaine to the hospital. He was looking forward to seeing his Grandpop. When he'd left his bedside last night the old man had looked dreadful; pale except for the bruises and barely conscious and Jermaine had spent most of the night with a terrible feeling that his grandfather wasn't going to make it through the night.

Ray swung the GTO around a corner and his phone slid across the dashboard. Fraser reached out and snatched it before it hit the floor, but the instant it was in his hand it began to ring. He glanced questioningly at Ray, who nodded that he should answer it.

"You have reached Detective Vecchio's cellular telephone," began Fraser and Ray rolled his eyes. "This is Constable Benton Fraser speaking." He paused to allow the caller to speak. "I'm terribly sorry, but Detective Vecchio is currently indisposed, Mr Zorro," Fraser replied.

Ray's head snapped round at the mention of his snitch's name.

"Alright, I understand," Fraser was still talking to Zorro, his brow now furrowed in concern. "Please don't put yourself in any further danger. We will be with you in a matter of minutes." 

"What the hell's goin' on?" asked Ray.

Fraser's face was serious. "We must go immediately to the C-Snakes' neighbourhood," he explained. "An altercation has developed between the two factions. Weapons have been drawn and Mr Zorro fears for his safety and that of his associates."

Ray slammed on the brakes and spun the GTO around. The tyres screeched and Fraser had to steady himself with the door handle.

"Call for back up, Fraser," said Ray, "we're gonna need it."

"Right you are," agreed Fraser, grabbing the radio handset.

Ray glanced in the rear view mirror at Jermaine, who was suddenly looking slightly nervous. "Sorry, kid," he said, "this shouldn't take long." He wished he could have sounded more convincing.

Ray parked the GTO a safe distance away from the location his snitch had given Fraser.

"Please remain in the vehicle," Fraser instructed Jermaine as Ray jumped out of the car.

Jermaine nodded. He understood that they'd not had time to drop him somewhere, but he really did not want to get involved in a gang war, so there was no way he'd be getting out of the car. "Sure," he replied, adding, "be careful, man."

Fraser nodded an acknowledgement and placed his hat squarely on his head. "Diefenbaker will stay with you," he said, enunciating clearly to ensure that the wolf understood.

Ray checked his weapon and nodded seriously to Fraser. They both knew they were walking into a dangerous situation and they probably should wait for back up, but Zorro had sounded uncharacteristically scared on the phone and Fraser had heard gunshots in the background. Lives were in danger and they couldn't afford to wait.

"Mr Zorro suggested the situation was escalating rapidly," Fraser explained as he and Ray ran through a back alley.

It's just 'Zorro', Fraser!" Ray replied in exasperation. "It's his street name," he explained, "Zorro ain't on his birth certificate."

"Ah, a nickname," Fraser nodded. "Understood."

A gunshot rang out and Ray and Fraser threw themselves against the wall. Ray drew his gun and pointed across the alley to a dumpster. Fraser understood and, as Ray dived behind the dumpster, he looked around for a suitable position. He spotted a fire escape and quickly climbed the stairs two at a time, taking cover behind a low wall. He still had eye contact with Ray and nodded down to him.

They could hear shouting peppered with gunfire and Fraser quickly glanced across the street hoping their back up would be arriving, but as yet there was no one else. He edged along the balcony and slowly peered over the railings into what appeared to be a service yard for some abandoned warehouses. There were burnt out cars and some rusting, twisted metal piled up next to them.

Behind one of the cars, Fraser could see three figures crouching for cover and a sudden glint of sunlight on metal confirmed that at least one of them had a gun. Fraser pulled his spyglass from his pocket. Through the magnified view Fraser recognised two of the huddled figures as Zorro and his friend from yesterday. The other figure was a young woman of a similar age. The woman and Zorro's friend both had their guns drawn.

Suddenly there were three gunshots and Fraser quickly ducked out of sight. The gunfire had come from across the yard and Fraser heard the noise each bullet made as it punctured a tiny hole in the car. Then he heard shouting and return gunfire…then silence. Fraser lifted his head to check that Zorro and his friends were alright and he was relieved to see that they appeared to be safe.

Fraser ran back to the fire escape and saw Ray at the corner of the yard, trying to get a view of the action. Ray looked up and saw his buddy, relieved that he was OK after all that shooting. They quickly exchanged information using hand signals. Ray explained to Fraser that he'd seen a group of five kids running around the block and take up a position behind some overflowing dumpsters, but they needed more information so Fraser pointed to the yard again. Ray returned a thumbs-up signal and both set off to join Zorro and his group.

Ray's heart was pounding as he ran around the corner, gun in hand. He kept low to the ground using the rubbish strewn around as cover. Ray knew they were about to walk into a dangerous area with bullets flying around. He began to wish he'd worn a vest. He hated the things though, they were bulky and cumbersome and hot, but at least they helped you to not get killed. Perhaps next time, he thought. It didn't feel right though, not when he knew that Fraser would never wear one. Hell, the Mountie even refused to carry a gun to protect himself.

Ray knew Fraser was deliberating avoiding carrying a gun in Chicago. He felt sure that he could easily get a permit if he tried, but his buddy had so far refused to do anything about it. Ray couldn't really understand why; Fraser was an excellent marksman. Ray had watched him last year on the Wailing Yankee taking four perfect shots in rapid succession with no time to think about his aim after plucking a gun from the air. I'm a good shot, Ray thought as he ran, at least I am if I wear my glasses, but there's no way I'd have been able to take out those three diving masks and knock the detonator from the guy's hand, not from that distance.

Ray came to a corner and heard two shots. He took a breath and slowly peered round the wall into the yard. He could see Zorro and the two others behind the car as Fraser had indicated. He and his buddy had developed a pretty good method of communication in these situations now; they'd even argued using only hand signals on more than one occasion. With one final glance over his shoulder, he ran to join Zorro.

The startled young man and his associates span round as Ray skidded to a halt beside them. The girl aimed her gun at his head, but Zorro knocked her hand down. "Kiki, no!" he exclaimed, "he's on our side."

Ray held his hands in the air, his gun still firmly in his grasp. "Hey, I ain't takin' sides," he said, "I'm just tryin' to stop people gettin' killed here. The paperwork on a homicide is hell."

"You're that cop!" sneered the other young man.

"Relax, Target," said Zorro, "he's cool."

Target glanced at Kiki, neither of them looked at all happy that Ray was there, but before they could argue they were stunned into silence as Fraser leapt from the balcony above and landed squarely on both feet beside them.

Zorro, Kiki and Target all shouted the same expletive in unison at the sight of their surprise guest.

"I apologise for startling you," Fraser said as he quickly took cover.

"Hi buddy," grinned Ray, "I was wonderin' where ya'd got to."

"I'm sorry I took so long," replied Fraser, "I paused to observe two armed men approaching this location from the east."

"East?" Ray frowned, "Which way's east?"

Fraser was slightly disappointed, although he didn't let it show. The sun was quite clearly visible in the clear blue sky today. He made a mental note to explain simple solar navigation to Ray later…again. "From that direction, Ray," he said, pointing across the yard.

Ray nodded and turned to Zorro. "What's goin' on?" he asked. "How big is this thing?"

"Big," sighed Zorro. "It's got way outta hand, bro. Pretty sure I know who wasted DJ," he added. "Jimmy G, he's on a power trip, thinks he can be our supremo and he ain't gonna let anyone get in his way."

"And Desmond Jackson attempted to get in his way?" asked Fraser.

"Hell yeah, DJ thought he could be supremo," explained Kiki, "he got his blade into Jimmy G in that alley, then he got a bullet in return."

Target glared at Kiki, he didn't trust the cop, or this crazy guy in red.

Suddenly there was another burst of gunfire. Ray looked at Fraser with concern; he didn't need his buddy's expert listening skills to recognise the sound of a semi-automatic.

"Does Jimmy G have many loyal supporters from within your group?" asked Fraser as he tried to build up a picture of the situation and basic profiles of the main players.

"He's got his brother, Zany G and a few others," replied Zorro, "but most of us are still loyal to the T-Man though."

"The T-Man bein' your head honcho?" queried Ray.

"Yeah," agreed Zorro, "he's holed up somewhere, he's got protection. He ain't happy about it, but the rest of us told him we'd deal with Jimmy G.

"Deal with him?" repeated Ray. "Y'mean waste him?"

"If we have to," said Target, checking his weapon.

"C'mon!" exclaimed Ray, "Zorro, he's not worth it and anyway, you're not a killer, I know you."

Zorro was about to reply, but then they heard more shouting. This was louder than before, closer. "Zorro!" came the voice. "Get your ass out here, bro!"

"It's him," hissed Zorro. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the anger down. He knew Ray was right, Jimmy G wasn't worth wasting perfectly good ammo on and he definitely wasn't worth the risk of getting the needle for. "If I go out there I'm a dead man…unless…" he trailed off as thoughts spun round in his head. "Maybe…maybe I can talk him around? I'm a smooth talker."

"What are you talking about?" asked Kiki, suddenly scared. "He's gonna waste you, man! Don't be stupid!"

Fraser put a firm hand on Zorro's shoulder. "Stay here, son," he said.

"Fraser, no!" exclaimed Ray, suddenly realising what his buddy had planned, but Fraser had already walked out into the middle of the yard in full view of everyone.

"I am unarmed," Fraser announced, he raised his hands to prove his point.

Jimmy G was so stunned to see a Mountie, in full dress uniform, that he lowered his weapon. "Who the hell are you?" he yelled angrily. Did this guy have a death wish?

"My name is Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," Fraser slowly lowered his hands as he spoke.

"What are you doin' here, man?" Jimmy G was bewildered, "I want Zorro."

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father," began Fraser, buying himself some time to read Jimmy G's state of mind, "and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture I remained, attached as a liaison with the Canadian Consulate."

Jimmy G had no idea how to respond at all.

"I would like to appeal to you directly," Fraser continued, "I understand that you have various disagreements amongst your group, but if you'll agree to a ceasefire, I am offering my services as a mediator."

"A what?" snapped Jimmy G.

"It means he wants us to talk to the T-Man and his crew," another young man nervously appeared. He had a gun trained on Fraser. "Maybe we should do what he says, bro? We don't really wanna kill the T-Man."

"Shut up, Zany!" yelled Jimmy. His kid brother had always had a big mouth. Right now he figured the cops didn't know he'd killed DJ, so if he played along maybe he could get what he wanted after all.

So this is Jimmy's brother, Fraser realised. He observed the exchange carefully.

"But the T-Man is one of us," pleaded Zany.

"He's not one of us!" spat Jimmy. The T-Man was a coward. He'd crawled into a hole to hide, the crew weren't gonna respect him now. This gig is mine, thought Jimmy, arrogantly. I'll take the C-Snakes to a new level, no one's gonna mess with us now. He realised he had to get the cops off his back. He turned back to Fraser, "OK, Mountie," he said, "I'm listening."

"Tell your people to surrender their weapons," Fraser instructed.

"And I can get a deal, right?" suggested Jimmy.

"If you co-operate fully with the Police," replied Fraser. He knew that Jimmy had little hope of an early release, the best he could hope for was to avoid the death penalty, but Fraser wasn't going to go into details with him now. "You will be provided with a lawyer," explained Fraser, "you can discuss your options with them. Co-operating at this juncture will most certainly go in your favour."

"OK," agreed Jimmy, "I'll sing for the cops." He was prepared to rat on anyone, even his own brother, if it meant saving his own neck. "Zany," he said, nodding to the gun in his brother's hand, "c'mon, drop it. We're givin' ourselves up, bro!"

Zany nodded and dropped his gun. He didn't like it at all, but he figured his brother must have a plan.

Jimmy G's heart was pounding. Sure, he'd killed Desmond Jackson and a couple of others too, but if he could convince the cops it had been someone else, he would walk away a free man. This is gonna be easy, just stay calm, he thought to himself. I can talk my way outta this. Jimmy's gun clattered to the ground as he released his grip on it and he smiled at Fraser.

Fraser was very wary of the situation. He felt sure that Jimmy had a back-up gun somewhere, but he didn't want to push him yet. The calm was slightly unnerving and Fraser was on full alert, ready for something to go wrong.

Unfortunately, Fraser's instincts were right. Target, who'd been listening from behind the car with Zorro, Kiki and Ray, suddenly exploded with rage. He and DJ had been tight, they'd been like real brothers and this bastard didn't seem to care that he'd killed him. Target leapt from behind the car, yelling obscenities and shooting at Jimmy G.

Fraser reacted fast, pulling Jimmy out of the way as the sound of gunfire filled the air once again.

"You think I'm a fool?" Jimmy yelled at Fraser, "I thought we had an understanding, bro!"

"I can assure you," replied Fraser, trying to get himself and Jimmy under better cover, "I was not aware that this was going to happen."

"Sure," scoffed Jimmy, pulling his back up gun from his jacket. "No one screws with Jimmy G and lives." He aimed his weapon at Fraser's head and Fraser frantically looked around for an escape route. However, he didn't have to worry. Ray had his back.

Ray had used the chaos to scramble closer, firing cover shots as he moved. He could see Fraser was in trouble and he aimed his gun. He didn't have a very clear shot, but it was good enough and he fired twice. The first shot missed by a matter of inches, but the second clipped Jimmy's arm and the gangster yelled out in pain. Fraser grabbed Jimmy's gun, but further gunfire was coming from all directions now and in the confusion Jimmy was able to escape the Mountie's clutches.

Ray realised he was too exposed in this new position and quickly scrambled back behind a burnt out Cadillac, trying not to panic now that Fraser was temporarily out of sight.

Seconds later Fraser appeared beside him, executing a perfect roll and landing without so much as a hair out of place.

"Jesus, Fraser!" exclaimed Ray, vocalising his relief. He really wished his buddy would wear a vest. Gunshots were flying over their heads and Ray flinched with each one.

Fraser's face was grave. "As far as I can ascertain, there are three seriously injured parties."

"Who?" asked Ray. He knew his bullet had only grazed Jimmy G.

"I don't know," replied Fraser, "I am only going on auditory evidence. I couldn't see the victims, but I heard the bullets penetrating."

Ray fought down a sudden wave of nausea. Sometimes he was really glad he didn't have Super Mountie hearing like his buddy.

Two bullets bounced off the roof of the Cadillac and Ray quickly returned fire. Suddenly, the sound of yelling came over the gunfire and Ray and Fraser both recognised Kiki's terrified voice. They raced back to the other car where they'd left her with Zorro and Target, but their hearts sank when they saw Target lying face down on the ground, blood pooling by his head. Fraser crawled over to him, but he soon realised that there was nothing he, nor anyone could do for the young man.

Kiki was kneeling beside the body, sobbing into her hands. "I'm sorry," said Fraser, but she couldn't hear his voice because she was overcome with grief. She'd never experienced death in such a close and graphic way before and her heart ached with the loss.

Zorro's face was red with rage and he desperately tried to stay in control of his emotions. Target was just a kid; this whole thing with Jimmy G was dumb. He wanted to wring the guy's neck. A bullet would be too quick for him, Jimmy deserved to suffer. Then he took a sharp breath; he'd never wanted to kill anyone before and he wasn't about to let Jimmy G change that. He crossed to Kiki and hugged her tightly.

Fraser backed away a little to give them some space.

"Where the hell is our back up?" hissed Ray, looking at the devastating sight in front of them. Such a waste of life, he thought, sadly, what is wrong with these people? Sometimes he really hated being a cop.

"I'm sure they'll be here shortly," replied Fraser. "We should attempt to approach from the other direction," he continued, trying to block out the smell of death. "I believe I know the positions of the various factions, however I cannot be certain of numbers at this juncture. I would estimate that we are looking at a minimum of six in addition to Jimmy G and his brother."

"Fraser, we're outnumbered and outgunned," Ray pointed out, gesticulating wildly in frustration. "If we get any closer…" he trailed off. He didn't need to explain, Fraser knew the risks.

"It's a risk I'm prepared to take," replied Fraser, adding, "to prevent further loss of life."

Ray instructed Zorro and Kiki to get to safety. An eerie silence had fallen now. Ray was scared and he knew Fraser was too. They were surrounded by angry young people with guns, but Ray wasn't ready to die today. He closed his eyes briefly and thought of Stella; the image of her on their wedding night was all he needed to give him strength and courage and he set off in one direction as Fraser went the other way. Suddenly, Ray found himself face to face with one of the armed gangsters, but he was quickly able to overpower him and he knocked him unconscious with a single punch. He pocketed the gun his attacker had been carrying, gave a concerned Fraser a thumbs-up across the yard and continued on his hands and knees.

Fraser kept out of sight until he was almost on the opposite side of the yard. Then he stepped out into the open. "Jimmy!" he called out. "You're hurt, let me help you."

Nothing.

Ray almost couldn't bear to watch. Fraser was a sitting duck out there.

"Please," Fraser appealed, "There have been fatalities on both sides. We can end this now."

He glanced at Ray who by now had got himself into a good position. Then Jimmy appeared. He was clutching his arm, but he still had a gun in his hand. He didn't say anything, he just stared at Fraser.

"Your men, your gang, they respect you," Fraser continued, "they look up to you. Show them you are prepared to surrender to protect them."

"Zany's dead," said Jimmy, suddenly. His face was stony and his breathing shallow. His gun twitched in his hand.

Every muscle in Fraser's body tensed. "I'm so sorry," he replied. Now the stakes had changed. Overwhelmed with grief, Jimmy was unpredictable; a loose cannon. Fraser glanced at Ray; they had to get control somehow.

Ray edged closer, but he wasn't close enough yet.

"You killed my brother," Jimmy half whispered through clenched teeth.

"No," replied Fraser, "I do not carry a firearm."

Jimmy G was about to reply when all hell broke loose. Gunfire once again filled the air from all directions, but this time people from both sides came out of their hiding places. They ran at each other, punching and kicking until the scene was one of violent chaos.

Fraser lunged at Jimmy and Ray charged forward to help, but bullets were passing over their heads and even Fraser couldn't keep a grip on the man's shoulder. Jimmy struggled until he was free and he pushed Fraser to the ground. Then he ran off to get away from the fighting that had broken out all around them.

Ray quickly helped Fraser to his feet and the Mountie immediately ran off after Jimmy, just as the sound of sirens filled the air.

"Now we get back up, greatness!" Ray yelled, sarcastically and he threw himself behind a wall.

Huey and Dewey appeared, astounded at what was going on in the yard. "Jesus, Ray, what the hell?" asked Huey.

Ray couldn't even begin to explain. "Two dead," he spluttered. "Be careful you morons. I'm gonna help Fraser."

Two patrol cars arrived at the scene as Ray raced off. Fraser was already out of sight, but there was only really one direction they could have gone. Ray's worst fear was that he would round a corner and find his buddy lying on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot wound.

Ray breathed a sigh of relief when he found Fraser still on his feet an unharmed. He had Jimmy G backed into a corner and was trying to reason with him again. Ray stopped a short distance away, leaning against a wall as he tried to catch his breath. He kept out of sight, giving Fraser a chance to do his thing. Ray had seen his buddy talk people out of these situations before, but he wasn't going to take any chances, not while Jimmy G was so volatile. With his glasses firmly in place, Ray lifted his gun, took his aim squarely at Jimmy and waited. He really didn't want to have to pull the trigger. Two dead was enough for one day. Ray tried not to think about what had happened already; he couldn't allow his feelings to take over, he had to stay focussed, he had Fraser's back. He was second guessing Jimmy G now. He had to be ready to take him down.

Before he'd had a chance to think about it a shot rang out and Jimmy fell to the floor. Fraser spun round. For a split second Ray thought maybe he had fired the shot himself, but then he realised Fraser had seen the shooter. Kiki was standing gun in hand, frozen in the act.

Ray trained his weapon on her now. "Put the gun down!" He yelled. "Now! And get down on your knees!"

Kiki complied without argument and Ray moved in quickly, kicking the gun out of her reach and placing her under arrest.

Diefenbaker came bounding out of the shadows and ran to Fraser. "I'm alright," Fraser reassured his wolf.

Dief barked and yapped. Jermaine had insisted on getting out of the car and he'd arrived just in time to witness Jimmy G's murder.

"Oh dear," replied Fraser and he looked up to see Jermaine walking slowly towards him. "Are you alright?" he asked. The young man just nodded. Diefenbaker ran to join him again, trying to keep him as far back from the grisly scene as possible.

Then Zorro came running round the block. "I…oh god, I tried to stop her," he said when he realised what had happened. Ray nodded understandingly and waved at him to stay back.

Fraser was kneeling at Jimmy's side, but he was already dead. Kiki's bullet had killed him instantly.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

"I'm terribly sorry, Jermaine, we won't be much longer." Fraser smiled apologetically.

Jermaine was leaning against the back of the GTO watching as various Police vehicles and ambulances came and went. He'd heard the gunfire from the safety of Ray's car and had sensibly spent most of the time crouched down between the seats, but then he'd heard Fraser's voice, panicked and persuaded Dief that they should go and see what was going on. "It's OK," he replied. He was more shaken than he was letting on.

Diefenbaker stood at his heels. The wolf may have impaired hearing, but he'd been fully aware of the danger that Fraser and Ray had been in. If he'd been left alone he would have defied Fraser's command to stay in the car and gone to help, but he'd seen how terrified Jermaine had been and realised his responsibility was to keep him out of danger.

Ray walked over to join them. "They're gonna start movin' the, er, the bodies," he said quietly.

Fraser nodded solemnly.

Ray tried to say something else but he couldn't get any words out. He briefly glanced at Fraser and then turned and walked away.

Fraser watched him go. The last couple of hours had been very intense and Ray had maintained his professional persona, such as it was, throughout, but Fraser knew it was only a matter of time before Ray would crack…and it wasn't going to be pretty.

Ray stopped in front of a brick wall. Fraser hesitated; he wanted to give his friend some space. He watched Ray's body language…hands on hips, head bowed…and waited. Ray's shoulders were heaving as he tried to take deep breaths, just as Fraser had taught him. Fraser was a master of emotional control and Ray had been trying to adopt some of his techniques, but with little success.

Fraser turned back to Jermaine. "Please excuse me for a moment," he said and smiled apologetically.

Ray was breathing through gritted teeth. The more he thought about what had happened, the worse he felt. Lives had been lost today. It had been brutal and cold and violent and no matter how many times Ray witnessed the aftermath of incidents like this, it didn't get any easier to process. He and Fraser had been caught up in the middle of it all…could we have prevented it? What should we have done differently? He was going over and over it in his head.

Ray closed his eyes; he didn't want to do this now. He wanted to wait until after he'd faced Welsh and been debriefed, he wanted to wait until he was alone; he didn't want to do this in front of Huey and Dewey, or in front of all these uniforms, or the crime scene techs…they didn't need to witness him losing it.

Ray wasn't sure how much longer this breathing thing of Fraser's was going to work for. It wasn't really working at all; he wasn't feeling calm, it was just making him feeling dizzy…really dizzy. It was no use; Ray had to do this his way. He let out a guttural growl and slammed his fist into the wall. Twice. Jesus…that hurt.

"Ray?" Fraser's voice was low.

Ray heard his buddy's voice as if it was wafting through fog. He punched the wall again hoping it would make everything better. It didn't.

"Are you done?" asked Fraser, softly.

Ray didn't want to make eye contact with his buddy. "Yeah," he breathed through clenched teeth.

"Show me," Fraser requested, the concern obvious in his voice.

Ray lifted his clenched fist and a worried look came across his buddy's face. "Can you flex all of your fingers?" asked Fraser.

Ray nodded and unfurled his long fingers to prove that he hadn't broken any bones. It hurt like hell, but maybe the pain was good? At least it was something new to focus on.

"You should put some powdered horn on that," said Fraser.

Ray looked up, puzzled. Fraser nodded towards Ray's hand and Ray was dismayed to see the amount of blood coating his knuckles. "Oh," he said. "Er, no, it's OK."

Fraser passed his friend a handkerchief. "Wrap it tightly around your hand," he said and then he waited until Ray was ready to talk again.

"Three dead kids," Ray said eventually. "Three…and that other girl ain't gonna make it, is she?"

"No, I don't believe she will," replied Fraser, sadly. The EMT's had worked miracles to keep one of the young shooting victims alive for as long as they had, but her injuries had been extensive. Fraser doubted she would still be alive upon arrival at the hospital.

"Why the hell don't you carry a gun?" Ray suddenly exploded. "What did ya think ya were doin' out there today?"

Fraser was a little taken aback. "I…I don't have a permit," he replied. "Are you suggesting that my not carrying a firearm today contributed to the devastating outcome?"

Ray let out a long, slow breath. "No," he replied, quietly. "Sorry, buddy, I didn't mean that at all. It's just…" he trailed off and looked over his shoulder as a bodybag on a stretcher was loaded into a black van. "What did we do wrong?" he asked.

Fraser hung his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "However," and he lifted his head again, "I can only envisage further bloodshed had additional firearms been brought into the equation."

Ray shrugged. Maybe Fraser was right. Perhaps the only way they could have stopped these kids shooting each other would have been to take them out themselves. Either way people would have died and Ray didn't want blood on his hands any more than Fraser did.

xXxXx

Jack Huey sat down heavily on his chair with a sigh. He looked across the desk to his partner. "Well, that was a mess, wasn't it," he said.

Tom Dewey nodded in agreement. Then a flash of red caught his eye and he looked up to see a rather dejected looking Mountie. "Hey, Fraser," Dewey called out. "Don't beat yourself up. We've been talking to the witnesses and Jimmy G's buddies were ready to wipe out the opposition, they were just waiting for the word from Jimmy. You calmed him down so he never gave that order."

"Yeah," agreed Huey, "you did good, and if we'd gotten there sooner we could have helped, but we got caught up in that fatal RTA."

"Upon reflection, it was an unfortunate set of circumstances," replied Fraser, "and I have no doubt that we prevented further loss of life. However, that doesn't make the deaths of four young people any easier to digest."

"It's been a hell of a week," acknowledged Dewey, glancing at Jack. "You guys up for a night out on Friday? We could hit a club, or…" he trailed off as he saw Fraser's look of concern at the prospect. "Or we could go to that new Thai place; Frannie said they do a real mean green chicken curry."

Fraser visibly relaxed. "I'd be delighted to join you gentlemen for a meal," he replied.

"OK, tell Ray he's invited too," smiled Jack. "Oh, and Fraser, um...I just want to apologise for, um, well…y'know."

"I understand," replied Fraser. "It's never an easy time. I've been there."

"We've all been there," acknowledged Tom.

Just then Ray walked into the squad room with Zorro. "Sit down," he said. "I'll get the paperwork." He went to the filing cabinet to find some forms.

"Hey, Mountie!" Zorro called out and Fraser joined him at Ray's desk. "I'm getting' outta here, man. I knew there was a reason I started snitchin' to the cops."

"Your sense of justice prevailed," replied Fraser.

"Yeah," agreed Zorro, "and my sense of makin' some extra bucks," he added.

"Ah," Fraser tugged at his earlobe as he acknowledged the young man's motives may not have been entirely virtuous. "So, what will you do now?" he asked.

"Now my Police career is over, you mean?" replied Zorro with a wink. "Well a buddy of mine hangs out in a studio downtown; he and his crew have been makin' a name for themselves on the club scene. I'm gonna hang with them for a while, maybe lay down some tracks. They're hard core…gritty beats, a kinda ghetto house, techno fusion. His cousin's girl's sister once fu…er, fornicated with Ice-T, so he has connections, y'know."

Fraser had no idea what he was talking about.

"Music, Fraser," said Ray, by way of explanation. He handed Zorro a green form and a pink one. "Read this," he said, "and sign this one here and here. They'll go on your file. It's, er, it's just all the stuff ya went over with your lawyer."

Zorro nodded and signed the form.

"I'm somewhat of an amateur musician myself," Fraser went on. "Do you play an instrument, Derek, or are you a vocalist?"

Zorro's head snapped up at the mention of his real name.

"I'm sorry," said Fraser, "I couldn't help noticing your signature."

Zorro scowled at him. No one called him Derek any more, not even his Mom. He was cool with the Mountie saying it though; it sounded wicked in a Canadian accent. "Beatboxing," he replied.

Fraser looked at Ray for an explanation. Ray laughed. "Zorro, give him a demo," he said.

Zorro proceeded to demonstrate his beatboxing skills to Fraser's amazement.

"My word, that's a remarkable skill you have there," Fraser smiled. "The Siqquak, a remote Inuit tribe, traditionally communicate using a series of percussive syllables, but even they would struggle to vocalise the variety of sounds you just demonstrated. I wish you luck with your musical ventures."

"Thanks, bro," grinned Zorro, although he hadn't understood half of what Fraser was saying. "I'm thinkin' of writing a tune about Target."

Fraser nodded his approval. "That would be a fitting way to honour the memory of your friend," he replied. He held out his hand to Zorro, but the young man offered a fist in return. "Ah, a fist bounce," said Fraser and matched the gesture.

"Bump," hissed Ray. "Fist bump."

"Fist bump, fist bump…" repeated Fraser, shaking his head.

"Respect to you, bro," said Zorro as he got up to leave.

"It was a pleasure working with you," replied Fraser.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

"Jermaine, Jermaine!" Ray shook his houseguest by the shoulders as he shouted his name. "Wake up, kid!"

Jermaine sat bolt upright and subconsciously lashed out. Ray ducked a punch and grabbed the young man's arms. "Hey, hey!" he yelled. "Wake up, it's me."

Jermaine blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the low light in Ray's apartment. His head was spinning and his heart was pounding. It felt like forever before his brain caught up with the rest of his body and he realised where he was and that he was safe. "Oh, Jesus, man!" he said. "That was one hell of a nightmare."

"Figured," replied Ray, releasing his grip. "You OK now?"

As Jermaine tried to catch his breath the images from his nightmare quickly started to fade. "I dreamt about Gramps, he had a gun…he kept shootin' me over and over…" he trailed off.

"It's OK," replied Ray, "it was just a bad dream. I get 'em all the time; they suck, but Fraser told me once that we get nightmares to, er, purge your mind of, er…somethin'. OK, I can't remember exactly what he said, but I think he meant it's good to have 'em occasionally."

Ray handed Jermaine a glass of water and the young man sipped it slowly. "Sorry, man," he said. "It's been days, but I can't shake it outta my head. How do you deal with stuff like that every day?"

"Y'know, we don't see people gettin' killed every day," Ray pointed out, "and I guess it gets easier over time and we, er, we have training and, um, there's therapy if we want it…not that I've ever seen a shrink."

Jermaine laughed. "I can't see you talking to a head doctor."

"No," replied Ray, "and, er, when I need to talk I go talk to Fraser. Freaks him out sometimes, but he's my buddy and, er, he's good about it."

"You're lucky," acknowledged Jermaine. "I haven't had a buddy since third grade. I guess that's why I nearly joined a gang. Being lonely sucks, but thank God I figured out it was better to be lonely than wind up like my Mom."

Ray nodded and squeezed Jermaine's shoulder supportively.

"What time is it?" asked Jermaine.

"Dunno. Early," Ray answered picking up Jermaine's empty glass and taking it back to his kitchen. "Coffee? Oh, ya don't drink coffee," he remembered.

"Maybe I should start?" suggested Jermaine, only half joking. "Gramps comes outta the hospital today so I'm gonna need some energy. Thanks for letting me stay here. I guess I should've moved back home days ago, but I kinda didn't wanna be there alone."

Ray waved his hand dismissively. "It's been good to have company while Fraser's tied up with that Italian Ambassador's thingy, er, whatever he said," he replied, "and you've more than paid your way; my bathroom hasn't been that clean since…well, since never and I still don't know how ya got that, er, that stain outta my rug. Even Fraser couldn't do it and he was usin' somethin' made outta moose pee."

"Jeez," laughed Jermaine. "Well my Grammy taught me what to use. She was so cool, she could do anything." He paused and his face fell. "I miss her."

"So does your Grandpop," Ray pointed out and Jermaine nodded.

"It's gonna be kinda weird leaving the apartment 'coz all our memories of Grammy are tied up in that place," Jermaine continued. His eyes suddenly looked a little sad.

Ray stayed quiet and allowed him a moment of reflection. "You OK?" he asked, eventually.

"Yeah, yeah sure," replied Jermaine, the smile returning to his face. "It's OK, we've gotta leave. It was never the greatest neighbourhood in town, but now it's a war zone. It ain't safe. Mort was talking to Gramps about these retirement places. If he goes for the idea then I'm gonna start applying to art colleges."

xXxXxX

"What if he hates it? He's never wanted to live in a place like this." Jermaine walked along the corridor slowly with Fraser and Diefenbaker. Ahead of them, Eugene walked with Mort supporting him by the elbow. He was leaning heavily on his walking stick too, but at least he was finally up and around. Jermaine was relieved to see that. The retirement village for ex-military personnel that Mort had found looked nice so far. Maybe Gramps will be OK here?

"Ultimately it's a joint decision between you and your Grandfather," replied Fraser, "but we've only just arrived. Give him a chance to look around before you start second guessing his opinion. Recent events do appear to have altered his outlook somewhat."

Jermaine nodded. Ever since his Grandpop had been released from the hospital he seemed different. He was slower physically and even less able to take care of himself than before, but he also seemed more relaxed and less angry with the world.

One night, Jermaine and his Grandpop had stayed up late talking about the kids who had died in the gang shootout. Eugene knew Target's mother; not very well, but they'd spoken on occasion in the past and he felt dreadfully sorry for her. Eugene knew how it felt to lose a child of his own.

Jermaine couldn't remember a time when his Grandpop had talked so much. Eventually, Eugene had started talking about his military experiences; not in any great detail, but he'd drawn parallels between what had happened to him and his unit in Vietnam and the gang wars going on right now in their own neighbourhood.

"When it comes down to it, war is war," he'd said to his grandson. "People die for what they believe in, or for their freedom, or for power and that's the way it's always been. Nothing changes. The killing will never stop, until people start to learn from the past."

Jermaine had been shocked to hear about some of the experiences Eugene had been through and he now had a new understanding and even greater respect for his Grandpop.

Fraser was impressed by the facilities at the retirement village. Mort had explained that the residents were veterans of various campaigns and that Eugene would hopefully feel at home here amongst people with whom he had so much in common. The staff all appeared very friendly, noted Fraser and seemed to genuinely care about all of the residents.

Eugene had been reluctant to come here, but Mort had given him a stern talking to about the need to look after himself. "You were almost killed recently, but you survived just like you survived in Vietnam. Don't waste this opportunity."

"Well this is very nice."

Fraser jumped at the sound of his father's voice.

"Mmmhmm," replied Fraser, hoping Jermaine wouldn't hear him. He turned to see the ghost of Bob Fraser standing behind a group of elderly residents who were engrossed in a card game.

"Good lord, she's cheating," exclaimed Bob, pointing to the five cards in the trembling hand of an innocent looking, grey haired woman. "Did you see that, Son?"

"Jermaine, why don't you walk with your Grandfather now," suggested Fraser. "Talk to him. Try to gauge his feelings."

Jermaine nodded and jogged a few paces to catch up with Eugene and Mort.

"I could definitely have lived in a place like this, had I not died," said Bob.

"You would have driven the other residents to distraction," replied Fraser. "I would not have inflicted you on other people trying to enjoy their twilight years in peace."

"But that woman is cheating at cards!" replied Bob. "The elderly think they can get away with murder…sometimes literally. I could have kept an eye on things."

Fraser was speechless and he rolled his eyes.

One of the care staff found a spare wheelchair for Eugene as she could see that the man was struggling to walk such a long distance. Eugene objected at first, but Mort and Jermaine persuaded him by pointing out that the visit would be over sooner if he wasn't walking everywhere.

Eugene started to find a few positive things about the complex. He liked the amount of privacy and independence offered to the residents and he liked the communal aspect of the day room. Jermaine was cautiously hopeful.

As they continued exploring, an elderly gentleman walked over to them. He was smartly dressed and used two walking sticks to get around.

"Hey, there, I'm Clive," he said to Eugene. "Are you moving in?"

Eugene shrugged. "Haven't quite made up my mind yet," he replied.

"How long have you lived here?" Mort asked Clive.

"Three years now," the old man replied. "It's not a bad place to live. You just have to learn to ignore all the old people," he added with a wink.

Eugene laughed. "That can't be easy," he said, looking around at the other residents.

"Oh you get used to them after a while," replied Clive. "But if they start boring you with war stories…" he trailed off and winked again. "I usually just switch this off," he continued and he pulled back his wild grey hair to reveal a hearing aid.

"I've got one of those too," chuckled Eugene, turning his head slightly so that his ear was visible. He liked Clive, he seemed like someone he could get along with if he decided to give this place a chance. He really had a lot to think about, he realised. "Good to meet you, Clive," he said. "Maybe I'll see you again soon?"

"I hope so," replied Clive. "Maybe we could exchange our own boring war stories?"

Mort and Eugene exchanged a knowing glance and Eugene felt a sudden wave of emotion. He realised that Clive and most of the other residents here probably had been through comparable experiences to his own.

As Clive shuffled off with a friendly wave, Eugene started to think that perhaps he could live here after all. He looked across at his grandson.

"You OK, Gramps?" asked Jermaine.

"Sure," replied Eugene. He began to see how unfair he'd been on his grandson. _The kid needs to live his own life, not waste it looking after me,_ he thought to himself. "I was just thinking…" he began, but the words caught in his throat and he had to stop as a realisation suddenly hit him.

"Gramps?" Jermaine was suddenly worried and he looked at Mort for reassurance.

"I was just thinking…" Eugene's voice was softer now and filled with emotion, "…how much you look like your mother."

xXxXx

"Ah there you are," Mort had been distracted by a flirtatious elderly lady by the name of Maud, but he'd finally managed to get away from her questions about her digestive conditions and had been looking for Eugene for a short while. "I was beginning to think you'd run away," added Mort with just a hint of irony.

Eugene was sitting in a comfortable chair staring out of the window. He turned to look at Mort. "You all think I should live here, don't you," he said. "You, Jermaine and Constable Fraser. I do understand, but…people come here to die. I'm not ready to die yet."

"No," replied Mort, sternly. "People come here to live."

Eugene's mouth twitched into a smile. "I don't think I've thanked you properly for saving my life," he said, humbly.

Mort waved his hand dismissively. "No need," he replied. "If anything, your actions saved my life."

Eugene shrugged. He didn't really remember much about what had happened. "How are your injuries?" he enquired.

Mort looked at his bandaged arms. "Honestly? They're almost healed, but I'm keeping the dressings on a little longer. It's rather convenient."

"You can't keep them hidden forever," Eugene pointed out.

"I know," acknowledged Mort. "I think I'm almost ready, actually. I'm ready to tell people."

Just then Jermaine appeared with Dief at his heels. "Hey Gramps," he smiled, "Fraser's talking to one of the nurses. She's got eyes all over him, man!"

Mort and Eugene laughed.

"I'm not sure if…" began Eugene, but Jermaine interrupted him.

"I was talking to that old guy, Clive," he said excitedly, "he's so cool."

Eugene forced a smile. "I really don't want to live in a home," he said.

Jermaine's face fell.

"This is not a home," snapped Mort. He was starting to get really frustrated with Eugene now. "You don't need round the clock nursing care. You'll still have your independence, but there are people here to help you if you need them. You'll have company if you want it and there are activities to occupy you."

"I saw a poster for a painting group," added Jermaine.

"And they organise excursions," added Mort.

"I don't want to visit stately homes with a bunch of old fogies," snapped Eugene.

"Actually, last month we went to the water park." The voice came from behind Jermaine. "Who wants to go to stately homes anyway?" It was Clive.

Eugene looked away, embarrassed. "I didn't mean…" began Eugene.

"You know, I did not want to come here when my daughter suggested it," continued Clive, "I'm not ready to sit in a chair for the rest of my days, watching the grass grow and being spoon fed. I was wrong though. This place isn't like that at all. We're a community here."

"You should listen to him," said Mort.

Eugene sighed. "OK, I'll think about it some more," he said.

"Let's go back to the living quarters and have another look around," suggested Mort. "And this time, open your eyes."

Mort helped Eugene back into the wheelchair and manoeuvred him back through the communal area.

Jermaine let out a slow breath and started after them. He almost bumped into Fraser coming around the corner. Fraser had broken into a run in an attempt to escape from his new admirer. He wished he hadn't worn the red serge for this visit. He felt sure that it attracted unnecessary attention from the opposite sex.

"Hey, man," said Jermaine, "I didn't think this was gonna take so long. I was kinda hoping Gramps would love it here."

"It's not an easy decision," Fraser pointed out.

"I guess I should go catch them up," said Jermaine.

"I'll wait outside for you," replied Fraser. "Ray will be here soon to drive us home."

"Thanks," nodded Jermaine and he ran off.

Fraser made his way outside to find Ray already there. He was leaning against the side of his car, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

"Sorry, Fraser, am I late?" asked Ray as his buddy approached. "I, er, I forgot what time we agreed."

Fraser glanced at his watch. "No you're not late," he replied. "In fact you're seventeen minutes early."

"Greatness!" grinned Ray. "So, has Eugene signed the papers yet?"

"He is still considering his options," explained Fraser.

"I can't imagine my folks wanting to live in a place like this," said Ray. "It would finish 'em off." He thought of his parents and their slightly nomadic lifestyle. He couldn't envisage them getting too old to live in their trailer, but one day he would have to think about it. Not yet, though.

"If and when the situation arises, you and they may feel differently," Fraser pointed out.

Fraser and Ray stood in contemplative silence, watching people come and go. Two grey haired ladies clad in brightly coloured Lycra jogged past and smiled at them.

"So, er, Dewey wants us all to go out again next week," said Ray, breaking the silence. "Are ya comin'?"

"Of course," replied Fraser. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Greatness," smiled Ray and they fell silent again.

A man headed across the car park dragging a golf bag behind him, laden with clubs. Fraser ran over to help him with his bag and he loaded it into the boot of the man's car before assisting the man as he slowly lowered himself into the driver's seat.

While this was going on, Ray noticed another car pull up and an elderly man got out, quickly followed by two young girls and a woman who was presumably their mother. The children excitedly did handstands and cartwheels on the lawn as the woman took the man by the arm and led him towards the building. They hugged tightly and the girls ran over to them for their own hugs with their smiling granddad before he went inside.

Fraser waved the other man off to enjoy his game of golf and Ray watched the woman struggle to persuade her children to get back into the car before she drove away too. He turned back to see Mort walking back with Fraser.

"Hey, Mort," said Ray, "how are things goin' in there with Eugene?"

"Good, actually," replied Mort, "a second look around has been helpful, he has more of an open mind. He and young Jermaine are talking now; I thought I should leave them to it."

"This place ain't at all how I imagined it," admitted Ray. "I was expectin' old ladies sittin' in chairs eatin' soup."

Mort laughed. "The residents can sit in chairs if they so wish, Detective, or they may choose to do something else," he said. "The emphasis here is on independence. Eugene is capable of looking after himself, but he needs to be aware of his limitations. I believe that he will have the right level of help here."

"May I take this opportunity to thank you for your assistance with Eugene," said Fraser. "I know Jermaine appreciates all that you've done for him."

"It has been a challenge," replied Mort, "but it has been very rewarding. Eugene is a good man; he has lived through a lot and he deserves our support. However, I can't pretend I'm not looking forward to getting back to the morgue for a little rest and relaxation."

Mort smiled broadly. He had enjoyed getting to know Eugene Brown and now considered him a friend. He glanced at his arms. Talking to the military veteran had made him think hard about his past and he had concluded that keeping it a secret was no longer the right thing to do. "Fraser," he began, "I recently purchased a videotape of the English National Opera's performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream, perhaps you would care to watch it with me one evening next week? "

Ray's eyes glazed over at the mention of opera. Fortunately, at that moment, his phone rang and he walked a few paces away to take the call.

"I would be delighted," beamed Fraser. "The London Coliseum is such a spectacular venue."

"I was lucky enough to attend a performance of Carmen there several years ago," replied Mort and he began to hum the Toreador Song.

"Well it appears that I have a rather busy social calendar next week," observed Fraser. "Perhaps Wednesday evening would be acceptable to you?"

Mort nodded. "There is something I would like to discuss with you," he began. "You see, when my arms were injured in the attack…" but he did not get the chance to finish his sentence as Ray came rushing back.

"Sorry, buddy, we've gotta go," said Ray. He was suddenly a ball of pent up energy and he slapped the roof of the GTO to emphasise the urgency. "Mall shooting." He hung his head briefly before looking up at Fraser with refreshingly optimistic eyes. "This one's gonna be different, though. We got this. C'mon, pitter patter."

THE END


End file.
